GIFT  OF 
Leslie   Van  Ness   Denman 


The  Man 

Who  Knew  Too  Much 
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"i    SHALL   WANT    YOUR    HELP,    THERE'S    SOMETHING   PRETTY   BAD 
OUT   ON    THE   LINKS" 


THE  MAN 

WHO  KNEW  TOO  MUCH 

By 

Gilbert  K.  Chesterton 


With  Illustrations  by 
W.  HATHERELL,  R.I. 


Harper  &  Brothers  Publishers 
New  York  and  London 
cMCMXXU 


SIFT  OF 

THE  MAN  WHO  KNEW  TOO  MUCH 

Copyright,  1922 
By  Harper  &  Brothers 


-1 — *  *i  i  ■ — * — 
•     •  •    •    *r*-x 


CONTENTS 


THE  MAN  WHO  KNEW  TOO  MUCH: 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  The  Face  in  the  Target i 

II.  The  Vanishing  Prince  34 

III.  The  Soul  of  the  Schoolboy 66 

IV.  The  Bottomless  Well  89 

V<       The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 116 

VI.  The  Hole  in  the  Wall 147 

VII.  The  Temple  of  Silence 185 

VIII.  The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue. 225 

THE  TREES  OF  PRIDE: 

I.  The  Tale  of  the  Peacock  Trees 261 

II.  The  Wager  of  Squire  Vane 286 

III.  The  Mystery  of  the  Well 312 

IV.  The  Chase  After  the  Truth 340 


M103895 


The  Man 

Who  Knew  Too  Much 


THE  MAN 

WHO  KNEW  TOO  MUCH 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  TARGET 

TTAROLD  MARCH,  the  rising  reviewer  and 
T  ■*•  social  critic,  was  walking  vigorously  across 
a  great  tableland  of  moors  and  commons,  the 
horizon  of  which  was  fringed  with  the  far-off 
woods  of  the  famous  estate  of  Torwood  Park. 
He  was  a  good-looking  young  man  in  tweeds, 
with  very  pale  curly  hair  and  pale  clear  eyes. 
Walking  in  wind  and  sun  in  the  very  landscape 
of  liberty,  he  was  still  young  enough  to  remember 
his  politics  and  not  merely  try  to  forget  them. 
For  his  errand  at  Torwood  Park  was  a  political 
one ;  it  was  the  place  of  appointment  named  by 
no  less  a  person  than  the  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer, Sir  Howard  Home,  then  introducing  his 
so-called  Socialist  Budget,  and  prepared  to  ex- 
pound it  in  an  interview  with  so  promising  a 
penman.  Harold  March  was  the  sort  of  man 
who  knows  everything  about  politics,  and  nothing 
about  politicians.  He  also  knew  a  great  deal 
about  art,  letters,  philosophy,  and  general  cul- 


Tin  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

ture,.abput  almost  everything,  indeed,  except  the 
iVofli  htt  was  living  in. 

Abruptly,  in  the  middle  of  those  sunny  and 
windy  flats,  he  came  upon  a  sort  of  cleft  almost 
narrow  enough  to  be  called  a  crack  in  the  land. 
It  was  just  large  enough  to  be  the  water-course 
^for  a  small  stream  which  vanished  at  intervals 
under  green  tunnels  of  undergrowth,  as  if  in  a 
dwarfish  forest,  y  Indeed,  he  had  an  odd  feeling 
as  if  he  were  a  giant  looking  over  the  valley  of 
the  pygmies.  When  he  dropped  into  the  hollow, 
however,  the  impression  was  lost;  the  rocky 
banks,  though  hardly  above  the  height  of  a  cot- 
tage, hung  over  and  had  the  profile  of  a  precipice. 
As  he  began  to  wander  down  the  course  of  the 
stream,  in  idle  but  romantic  curiosity,  and  saw 
the  water  shining  in  short  strips  between  the 
great  gray  boulders  and  bushes  as  soft  as  great 
green  mosses,  he  fell  into  quite  an  opposite  vein 
!of  fantasy.  It  was  rather  as  if  the  earth  had 
opened  and  swallowed  him  into  a  sort  of  under- 
world of  dreams.  And  when  he  became  con- 
scious of  a  human  figure  dark  against  the  silver 
stream,  sitting  on  a  large  boulder  and  looking 
rather  like  a  large  bird,  it  was  perhaps  with 
some  of  the  premonitions  proper  to  a  man  who 
meets  the  strangest  friendship  of  his  life. 

The  man  was  apparently  fishing;  or  at  least 
was  fixed  in  a  fisherman's  attitude  with  more 
than  a  fisherman's  immobility.    March  was  able 

2 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

to  examine  the  man  almost  as  if  he  had  been  a 
statue  for  some  minutes  before  the  statue  spoke. 
He  was  a  tall,  fair  man,  cadaverous,  and  a  little 
lackadaisical,  with  heavy  eyelids  and  a  high- 
bridged  nose.  When  his  face  was  shaded  with 
his  wide  white  hat,  his  light  mustache  and  lithe 
figure  gave  him  a  look  of  youth.  But  the 
Panama  lay  on  the  moss  beside  him;  and  the 
spectator  could  see  that  his  brow  was  prematurely 
bald;  and  this,  combined  with  a  certain  hollow- 
ness  about  the  eyes,  had  an  air  of  headwork  and 
even  headache.  But  the  most  curious  thing  about 
him,  realized  after  a  short  scrutiny,  was  that, 
though  he  looked  like  a  fisherman,  he  was  not 
fishing. 

He  was  holding,  instead  of  a  rod,  something 
that  might  have  been  a  landing-net  which  some 
fishermen  use,  but  which  was  much  more  like 
the  ordinary  toy  net  which  children  carry,  and 
which  they  generally  use  indifferently  for  shrimps 
or  butterflies.  He  was  dipping  this  into  the 
water  at  intervals,  gravely  regarding  its  harvest 
of  weed  or  mud,  and  emptying  it  out  again. 

"No,  I  haven't  caught  anything,"  he  remarked, 
calmly,  as  if  answering  an  unspoken  query. 
"When  I  do  I  have  to  throw  it  back  again;  espe- 
cially the  big  fish.  But  some  of  the  little  beasts 
interest  me  when  I  get  'em." 

"A  scientific  interest,  I  suppose?"  observed 
March. 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"Of  a  rather  amateurish  sort,  I  fear," 
answered  the  strange  fisherman.  "I  have  a 
sort  of  hobby  about  what  they  call  'phenomena 
of  phosphorescence.'  But  it  would  be  rather 
awkward  to  go  about  in  society  crying  stinking 
fish." 

"I  suppose  it  would,"  said  March,  with  a 
smile. 

"Rather  odd  to  enter  a  drawing-room  carry- 
ing a  large  luminous  cod,"  continued  the  stran- 
ger, in  his  listless  way.  "How  quaint  it  would 
be  if  one  could  carry  it  about  like  a  lantern,  or 
have  little  sprats  for  candles.  Some  of  the  sea- 
beasts  would  really  be  very  pretty  like  lamp- 
shades; the  blue  sea-snail  that  glitters  all  over 
like  starlight;  and  some  of  the  red  starfish  really 
shine  like  red  stars.  But,  naturally,  I'm  not  look- 
ing for  them  here." 

March  thought  of  asking  him  what  he  was 
looking  for;  but,  feeling  unequal  to  a  technical 
discussion  at  least  as  deep  as  the  deep-sea  fishes, 
he  returned  to  more  ordinary  topics. 

.  "Delightful  sort  of  hole  this  is,"  he  said. 
"This  little  dell  and  river  here.  It's  like  those 
places  Stevenson  talks  about,  where  something 
ought  to  happen." 

"I  know,"  answered  the  other.  "I  think  it's 
because  the  place  itself,  so  to  speak,  seems  to 
happen  and  not  merely  to  exist.  Perhaps  that's 
what  old  Picasso  and  some  of  the  Cubists  are  try- 

4 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

ing  to  express  by  angles  and  jagged  lines.  Look 
at  that  wall  like  low  cliffs  that  juts  forward  just 
at  right  angles  to  the  slope  of  turf  sweeping  up  to 
it.  That's  like  a  silent  collision.  It's  like  a 
breaker  and  the  back-wash  of  a  wave." 

March  looked  at  the  low-browed  crag  over- 
hanging the  green  slope  and  nodded.  He  was 
interested  in  a  man  who  turned  so  easily  from  the 
technicalities  of  science  to  those  of  art;  and  asked 
him  if  he  admired  the  new  angular  artists. 

uAs  I  feel  it,  the  Cubists  are  not  Cubist 
enough,"  replied  the  stranger.  "I  mean  they're 
not  thick  enough.  By  making  things  mathema- 
tical they  make  them  thin.  Take  the  living  lines 
out  of  that  landscape,  simplify  it  to  a  right 
angle,  and  you  flatten  it  out  to  a  mere  diagram 
on  paper.  Diagrams  have  their  own  beauty; 
but  it  is  of  just  the  other  sort.  They  stand  for 
the  unalterable  things;  the  calm,  eternal,  mathe- 
matical sort  of  truths ;  what  somebody  calls  the 
'white  radiance  of " 

He  stopped,  and  before  the  next  word  came 
something  had  happened  almost  too  quickly  and 
completely  to  be  realized.  From  behind  the 
overhanging  rock  came  a  noise  and  rush  like 
that  of  a  railway  train;  and  a  great  motor  car 
appeared.  It  topped  the  crest  of  cliff,  black 
against  the  sun,  like  a  battle-chariot  rushing  to 
destruction  in  some  wild  epic.  March  auto- 
matically put  out  his  hand  in  one  futile  gesture, 

5 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

as  if  to  catch  a  falling  tea-cup  in  a  drawing- 
room. 

For  the  fraction  of  a  flash  it  seemed  to  leave 
the  ledge  of  rock  like  a  flying  ship ;  then  the  very 
sky  seemed  to  turn  over  like  a  wheel,  and  it  lay 
a  ruin  amid  the  tall  grasses  below,  a  line  of  gray 
smoke  going  up  slowly  from  it  into  the  silent  air. 
A  little  lower  the  figure  of  a  man  with  gray  hair 
lay  tumbled  down  the  steep  green  slope,  his  limbs 
lying  all  at  random,  and  his  face  turned  away. 

The  eccentric  fisherman  dropped  his  net  and 
walked  swiftly  toward  the  spot,  his  new  acquaint- 
ance following  him.  As  they  drew  near  there 
seemed  a  sort  of  monstrous  irony  in  the  fact 
that  the  dead  machine  was  still  throbbing  and 
thundering  as  busily  as  a  factory,  while  the 
man  lay  so  still. 

He  was  unquestionably  dead.  The  blood 
flowed  in  the  grass  from  a  hopelessly  fatal  frac- 
ture at  the  back  of  the  skull;  but  the  face,  which 
was  turned  to  the  sun,  was  uninjured  and 
strangely  arresting  in  itself.  It  was  one  of  those 
cases  of  a  strange  face  so  unmistakable  as  to 
feel  familiar.  We  feel,  somehow,  that  we 
ought  to  recognize  it,  even  though  we  do  not. 
It  was  of  the  broad,  square  sort  with  great  jaws, 
almost  like  that  of  a  highly  intellectual  ape ;  the 
wide  mouth  shut  so  tight  as  to  be  traced  by  a 
mere  line ;  the  nose  short  with  the  sort  of  nos- 
trils that  seem  to  gape  with  an  appetite  for  the 

6 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

air.  The  oddest  thing  about  the  face  was  that 
one  of  the  eyebrows  was  cocked  up  at  a  much 
sharper  angle  than  the  other.  March  thought 
he  had  never  seen  a  face  so  naturally  alive  as 
that  dead  one.  And  its  ugly  energy  seemed  all 
the  stranger  for  its  halo  of  hoary  hair.  Some 
papers  lay  half  fallen  out  of  the  pocket,  and 
from  among  them  March  extracted  a  card-case. 
He  read  the  name  on  the  card  aloud. 

"Sir  Humphrey  Turnbull.  I'm  sure  I've 
heard  that  name  somewhere." 

His  companion  only  gave  a  sort  of  a  little 
sigh  and  was  silent  for  a  moment,  as  if  rumi- 
nating, then  he  merely  said,  "The  poor  fellow  is 
quite  gone,"  and  added  some  scientific  terms  in 
which  his  auditor  once  more  found  himself  out 
of  his  depth. 

"As  things  are,"  continued  the  same  curiously 
well-informed  person,  "it  will  be  more  legal  for 
us  to  leave  the  body  as  it  is  until  the  police  are 
informed.  In  fact,  I  think  it  will  be  well  if 
nobody  except  the  police  is  informed.  Don't 
be  surprised  if  I  seem  to  be  keeping  it  dark  from 
some  of  our  neighbors  round  here."  Then,  as 
if  prompted  to  regularize  his  rather  abrupt  con- 
fidence, he  said:  "I've  come  down  to  see  my 
cousin  at  Torwood;  my  name  is  Home  Fisher. 
Might  be  a  pun  on  my  pottering  about  here, 
mightn't  it?" 

"Is  Sir  Howard  Home  your  cousin?"  asked 

2  7 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

March.  "I'm  going  to  Torwood  Park  to  see 
him  myself;  only  about  his  public  work,  of 
course,  and  the  wonderful  stand  he  is  making 
for  his  principles.  I  think  this  Budget  is  the 
greatest  thing  in  English  history.  If  it  fails,  it 
will  be  the  most  heroic  failure  in  English  history. 
Are  you  an  admirer  of  your  great  kinsman,  Mr. 
Fisher?" 

"Rather,"  said  Mr.  Fisher.  "He's  the  best 
shot  I  know." 

Then,  as  if  sincerely  repentant  of  his  non- 
chalance, he  added,  with  a  sort  of  enthusiasm: 

"No,  but  really,  he's  a  beautiful  shot." 

As  if  fired  by  his  own  words,  he  took  a  sort 
of  leap  at  the  ledges  of  the  rock  above  him,  and 
scaled  them  with  a  sudden  agility  in  startling 
contrast  to  his  general  lassitude.  He  had  stood 
for  some  seconds  on  the  headland  above,  with 
his  aquiline  profile  under  the  Panama  hat  re- 
lieved against  the  sky  and  peering  over  the 
countryside  before  his  companion  had  collected 
himself  sufficiently  to  scramble  up  after  him. 

The  level  above  was  a  stretch  of  common  turf 
on  which  the  tracks  of  the  fated  car  were 
plowed  plainly  enough;  but  the  brink  of  it  was 
broken  as  with  rocky  teeth;  broken  boulders  of 
all  shapes  and  sizes  lay  near  the  edge;  it  was 
almost  incredible  that  any  one  could  have  de- 
liberately driven  into  such  a  death  trap,  espe- 
cially in  broad  daylight. 

8 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

"I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  it,"  said  March. 
"Was  he  blind  ?     Or  blind  drunk  ?" 

4 'Neither,  by  the  look  of  him,"  replied  the 
other. 

"Then  it  was  suicide." 

"It  doesn't  seem  a  cozy  way  of  doing  it," 
remarked  the  man  called  Fisher.  "Besides,  I 
don't  fancy  poor  old  Puggy  would  commit  sui- 
cide, somehow." 

"Poor  old  who?"  inquired  the  wondering 
journalist.  "Did  you  know  this  unfortunate 
man?" 

"Nobody  knew  him  exactly,"  replied  Fisher, 
with  some  vagueness.  "But  one  knew  him,  of 
course.  He'd  been  a  terror  in  his  time,  in  Par- 
liament and  the  courts,  and  so  on;  especially  in 
that  row  about  the  aliens  who  were  deported 
as  undesirables,  when  he  wanted  one  of  'em 
hanged  for  murder.  He  was  so  sick  about  it 
that  he  retired  from  the  bench.  Since  then  he 
mostly  motored  about  by  himself;  but  he  was 
coming  to  Torwood,  too,  for  the  week-end;  and 
I  don't  see  why  he  should  deliberately  break  his 
neck  almost  at  the  very  door.  I  believe  Hoggs — 
I  mean  my  cousin  Howard — was  coming  down 
specially  to  meet  him." 

"Torwood  Park  doesn't  belong  to  your 
cousin?"  inquired  March. 

"No;  it  used  to  belong  to  the  Winthrops,  you 
know,"  replied  the  other.     "Now  a  new  man's 

9 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

got  it;  a  man  from  Montreal  named  Jenkins. 
Hoggs  comes  for  the  shooting;  I  told  you  he 
was  a  lovely  shot." 

This  repeated  eulogy  on  the  great  social 
statesman  affected  Harold  March  as  if  some- 
body had  defined  Napoleon  as  a  distinguished 
player  of  nap.  But  he  had  another  half-formed 
impression  struggling  in  this  flood  of  unfamiliar 
things,  and  he  brought  it  to  the  surface  before 
it  could  vanish. 

"Jenkins,"  he  repeated.  "Surely  you  don't 
mean  Jefferson  Jenkins,  the  social  reformer?  I 
mean  the  man  who's  fighting  for  the  new  cot- 
tage-estate scheme.  It  would  be  as  interesting 
to  meet  him  as  any  Cabinet  Minister  in  the 
world,  if  you'll  excuse  my  saying  so." 

"Yes;  Hoggs  told  him  it  would  have  to  be 
cottages,"  said  Fisher.  "He  said  the  breed  of 
cattle  had  improved  too  often,  and  people  were 
beginning  to  laugh.  And,  of  course,  you  must 
hang  a  peerage  on  to  something;  though  the  poor 
chap  hasn't  got  it  yet.  Hullo,  here's  somebody 
else." 

They  had  started  walking  in  the  tracks  of  the 
car,  leaving  it  behind  them  in  the  hollow,  still 
humming  horribly  like  a  huge  insect  that  had 
killed  a  man.  The  tracks  took  them  to  the  cor- 
ner of  the  road,  one  arm  of  which  went  on  in 
the  same  line  toward  the  distant  gates  of  the 
park.     It  was  clear  that  the  car  had  been  driven 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

down  the  long  straight  road,  and  then,  instead 
of  turning  with  the  road  to  the  left,  had  gone 
straight  on  over  the  turf  to  its  doom.  But  it 
was  not  this  discovery  that  had  riveted  Fisher's 
eye,  but  something  even  more  solid.  At  the 
angle  of  the  white  road  a  dark  and  solitary  figure 
was  standing  almost  as  still  as  a  finger  post.  It 
was  that  of  a  big  man  in  rough  shooting-clothes, 
bareheaded,  and  with  tousled  curly  hair  that 
gave  him  a  rather  wild  look.  On  a  nearer 
approach  this  first  more  fantastic  impression 
faded;  in  a  full  light  the  figure  took  on  more 
conventional  colors,  as  of  an  ordinary  gentle- 
man who  happened  to  have  come  out  without  a 
hat  and  without  very  studiously  brushing  his 
hair.  But  the  massive  stature  remained,  and 
something  deep  and  even  cavernous  about  the 
setting  of  the  eyes  redeemed  his  animal  good 
looks  from  the  commonplace.  But  March  had 
no  time  to  study  the  man  more  closely,  for, 
much  to  his  astonishment,  his  guide  merely  ob- 
served, "Hullo,  Jack!"  and  walked  past  him  as 
if  he  had  indeed  been  a  signpost,  and  without 
attempting  to  inform  him  of  the  catastrophe 
beyond  the  rocks.  It  was  relatively  a  small 
thing,  but  it  was  only  the  first  in  a  string  of 
singular  antics  on  which  his  new  and  eccentric 
friend  was  leading  him. 

The  man  they  had  passed  looked  after  them 
in  rather  a  suspicious  fashion,  but  Fisher  con- 

ii 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

tinued  serenely  on  his  way  along  the  straight 
road  that  ran  past  the  gates  of  the  great 
estate. 

"That's  John  Burke,  the  traveler,"  he  con- 
descended to  explain.  "I  expect  youVe  heard 
of  him;  shoots  big  game  and  all  that.  Sorry  I 
couldn't  stop  to  introduce  you,  but  I  dare  say 
you'll  meet  him  later  on." 

"I  know  his  book,  of  course,"  said  March, 
with  renewed  interest.  "That  is  certainly  a  fine 
piece  of  description,  about  their  being  only  con- 
scious of  the  closeness  of  the  elephant  when  the 
colossal  head  blocked  out  the  moon." 

"Yes,  young  Halkett  writes  jolly  well,  I  think. 
What?  Didn't  you  know  Halkett  wrote 
Burke's  book  for  him?  Burke  can't  use  any- 
thing except  a  gun;  and  you  can't  write  with 
that.  Oh,  he's  genuine  enough  in  his  way,  you 
know,  as  brave  as  a  lion,  or  a  good  deal  braver 
by  all  accounts." 

"You  seem  to  know  all  about  him,"  observed 
March,  with  a  rather  bewildered  laugh,  "and 
about  a  good  many  other  people." 

Fisher's  bald  brow  became  abruptly  corru- 
gated, and  a  curious  expression  came  into  his 
eyes. 

"I  know  too  much,"  he  said.  "That's  what's 
the  matter  with  me.  That's  what's  the  matter 
with  all  of  us,  and  the  whole  show;  we  know  too 
much.     Too  much  about  one  another ;  too  much 

12 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

about  ourselves.  That's  why  I'm  really  inter- 
ested, just  now,  about  one  thing  that  I  don't 
know." 

"And  that  is?"  inquired  the  other. 

"Why  that  poor  fellow  is  dead." 

They  had  walked  along  the  straight  road  for 
nearly  a  mile,  conversing  at  intervals  in  this 
fashion;  and  March  had  a  singular  sense  of  the 
whole  world  being  turned  inside  out.  Mr. 
Home  Fisher  did  not  especially  abuse  his 
friends  and  relatives  in  fashionable  society;  of 
some  of  them  he  spoke  with  affection.  But  they 
seemed  to  be  an  entirely  new  set  of  men  and 
women,  who  happened  to  have  the  same  nerves 
as  the  men  and  women  mentioned  most  often  in 
the  newspapers.  Yet  no  fury  of  revolt  could 
have  seemed  to  him  more  utterly  revolutionary 
than  this  cold  familiarity.  It  was  like  daylight 
on  the  other  side  of  stage  scenery. 

They  reached  the  great  lodge  gates  of  the 
park,  and,  to  March's  surprise,  passed  them 
and  continued  along  the  interminable  white, 
straight  road.  But  he  was  himself  too  early 
for  his  appointment  with  Sir  Howard,  and  was 
not  disinclined  to  see  the  end  of  his  new  friend's 
experiment,  whatever  it  might  be.  They  had 
long  left  the  moorland  behind  them,  and  half 
the  white  road  was  gray  in  the  great  shadow  of 
the  Torwood  pine  forests,  themselves  like  gray 
bars  shuttered  against  the  sunshine  and  within, 

13 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

amid  that  clear  noon,  manufacturing  their  own 
midnight.  Soon,  however,  rifts  began  to  appear 
in  them  like  gleams  of  colored  windows;  the 
trees  thinned  and  fell  away  as  the  road  went 
forward,  showing  the  wild,  irregular  copses  in 
which,  as  Fisher  said,  the  house-party  had  been 
blazing  away  all  day.  And  about  two  hundred 
yards  farther  on  they  came  to  the  first  turn  of 
the  road. 

At  the  corner  stood  a  sort  of  decayed  inn  with 
the  dingy  sign  of  The  Grapes.  The  signboard 
was  dark  and  indecipherable  by  now,  and  hung 
black  against  the  sky  and  the  gray  moorland 
beyond,  about  as  inviting  as  a  gallows.  March 
remarked  that  it  looked  like  a  tavern  for  vinegar 
instead  of  wine. 

"A  good  phrase,"  said  Fisher,  "and  so  it 
would  be  if  you  were  silly  enough  to  drink  wine 
in  it.  But  the  beer  is  very  good,  and  so  is  the 
brandy." 

March  followed  him  to  the  bar  parlor  with 
some  wonder,  and  his  dim  sense  of  repugnance 
was  not  dismissed  by  the  first  sight  of  the  inn- 
keeper, who  was  widely  different  from  the  genial 
innkeepers  of  romance,  a  bony  man,  very  silent 
behind  a  black  mustache,  but  with  black,  restless 
eyes.  Taciturn  as  he  was,  the  investigator  suc- 
ceeded at  last  in  extracting  a  scrap  of  informa- 
tion from  him,  by  dint  of  ordering  beer  and 
talking  to  him  persistently  and  minutely  on  the 

14 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

subject  of  motor  cars.  He  evidently  regarded 
the  innkeeper  as  in  some  singular  way  an  author- 
ity on  motor  cars;  as  being  deep  in  the  secrets 
of  the  mechanism,  management,  and  misman- 
agement of  motor  cars ;  holding  the  man  all  the 
time  with  a  glittering  eye  like  the  Ancient  Mar- 
iner. Out  of  all  this  rather  mysterious  conver- 
sation there  did  emerge  at  last  a  sort  of  admis- 
sion that  one  particular  motor  car,  of  a  given 
description,  had  stopped  before  the  inn  about 
an  hour  before,  and  that  an  elderly  man  had 
alighted,  requiring  some  mechanical  assistance. 
Asked  if  the  visitor  required  any  other  assist- 
ance, the  innkeeper  said  shortly  that  the  old 
gentleman  had  filled  his  flask  and  taken  a  packet 
of  sandwiches.  And  with  these  words  the  some- 
what inhospitable  host  had  walked  hastily  out  of 
the  bar,  and  they  heard  him  banging  doors  in  the 
dark  interior. 

Fisher's  weary  eye  wandered  round  the  dusty 
and  dreary  inn  parlor  and  rested  dreamily  on  a 
glass  case  containing  a  stuffed  bird,  with  a  gun 
hung  on  hooks  above  it,  which  seemed  to  be  its 
only  ornament. 

"Puggy  was  a  humorist,'*  he  observed,  "at 
least  in  his  own  rather  grim  style.  But  it  seems 
rather  too  grim  a  joke  for  a  man  to  buy  a 
packet  of  sandwiches  when  he  is  just  going  to 
commit  suicide." 

"If  you  come  to  that,"  answered  March,  "it 
i5 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

isn't  very  usual  for  a  man  to  buy  a  packet  of 
sandwiches  when  he's  just  outside  the  door  of 
a  grand  house  he's  going  to  stop  at." 

"No  .  .  .  no,"  repeated  Fisher,  almost  me- 
chanically; and  then  suddenly  cocked  his  eye  at 
his  interlocutor  with  a  much  livelier  expression. 

"By  Jove !  that's  an  idea.  You're  perfectly 
right.  And  that  suggests  a  very  queer  idea, 
doesn't  it?" 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  March  started 
with  irrational  nervousness  as  the  door  of  the 
inn  was  flung  open  and  another  man  walked 
rapidly  to  the  counter.  He  had  struck  it  with  a 
coin  and  called  out  for  brandy  before  he  saw 
the  other  two  guests,  who  were  sitting  at  a  bare 
wooden  table  under  the  window.  When  he 
turned  about  with  a  rather  wild  stare,  March  had 
yet  another  unexpected  emotion,  for  his  guide 
hailed  the  man  as  Hoggs  and  introduced  him  as 
Sir  Howard  Home. 

He  looked  rather  older  than  his  boyish  por- 
traits in  the  illustrated  papers,  as  is  the  way  of 
politicians;  his  flat,  fair  hair  was  touched  with 
gray,  but  his  face  was  almost  comically  round, 
with  a  Roman  nose  which,  when  combined  with 
his  quick,  bright  eyes,  raised  a  vague  reminiscence 
of  a  parrot.  He  had  a  cap  rather  at  the  back 
of  his  head  and  a  gun  under  his  arm.  Harold 
March  had  imagined  many  things  about  his 
meeting  with  the  great  political  reformer,  but 

16 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

he  had  never  pictured  him  with  a  gun  under  his 
arm,  drinking  brandy  in  a  public  house. 

"So  you're  stopping  at  Jink's,  too,"  said 
Fisher.    "Everybody  seems  to  be  at  Jink's." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Chancellor  of  the  Excheq- 
uer. "Jolly  good  shooting.  At  least  all  of  it 
that  isn't  Jink's  shooting.  I  never  knew  a  chap 
with  such  good  shooting  that  was  such  a  bad 
shot.  Mind  you,  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow 
and  all  that;  I  don't  say  a  word  against  him. 
But  he  never  learned  to  hold  a  gun  when  he  was 
packing  pork  or  whatever  he  did.  They  say  he 
shot  the  cockade  off  his  own  servant's  hat;  just 
like  him  to  have  cockades,  of  course.  He  shot 
the  weathercock  off  his  own  ridiculous  gilded 
summerhouse.  It's  the  only  cock  he'll  ever 
kill,  I  should  think.  Are  you  coming  up  there 
now?" 

Fisher  said,  rather  vaguely,  that  he  was  fol- 
lowing soon,  when  he  had  fixed  something  up; 
and  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  left  the 
inn.  March  fancied  he  had  been  a  little  upset 
or  impatient  when  he  called  for  the  brandy;  but 
he  had  talked  himself  back  into  a  satisfactory 
state,  if  the  talk  had  not  been  quite  what  his 
literary  visitor  had  expected.  Fisher,  a  few 
minutes  afterward,  slowly  led  the  way  out  of  the 
tavern  and  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  look- 
ing down  in  the  direction  from  which  they  had 
traveled.     Then   he  walked  back   about   two 

17 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

hundred  yards  in  that  direction  and  stood  still 
again. 

"I  should  think  this  is  about  the  place,"  he 
said. 

"What  place?"  asked  his  companion. 

"The  place  where  the  poor  fellow  was 
killed,"  said  Fisher,  sadly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  March. 
"He  was  smashed  up  on  the  rocks  a  mile  and  a 
half  from  here." 

"No,  he  wasn't,"  replied  Fisher.  "He  didn't 
fall  on  the  rocks  at  all.  Didn't  you  notice  that 
he  only  fell  on  the  slope  of  soft  grass  under- 
neath? But  I  saw  that  he  had  a  bullet  in  him 
already." 

Then  after  a  pause  he  added: 

"He  was  alive  at  the  inn,  but  he  was  dead 
long  before  he  came  to  the  rocks.  So  he  was 
shot  as  he  drove  his  car  down  this  strip  of 
straight  road,  and  I  should  think  somewhere 
about  here.  After  that,  of  course,  the  car  went 
straight  on  with  nobody  to  stop  or  turn  it.  It's 
really  a  very  cunning  dodge  in  its  way;  for  the 
body  would  be  found  far  away,  and  most  people 
would  say,  as  you  do,  that  it  was  an  accident  to 
a  motorist.  The  murderer  must  have  been  a 
clever  brute." 

"But  wouldn't  the  shot  be  heard  at  the  inn  or 
somewhere?"  asked  March. 

"It  would  be  heard.  But  it  would  not  be 
18 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

noticed.  That,"  continued  the  investigator, 
"is  where  he  was  clever  again.  Shooting  was 
going  on  all  over  the  place  all  day;  very  likely 
he  timed  his  shot  so  as  to  drown  it  in  a  number 
of  others.  Certainly  he  was  a  first-class  crim- 
inal.   And  he  was  something  else  as  well." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  his  companion, 
with  a  creepy  premonition  of  something  coming, 
he  knew  not  why. 

"He  was  a  first-class  shot,"  said  Fisher. 

He  had  turned  his  back  abruptly  and  was 
walking  down  a  narrow,  grassy  lane,  little  more 
than  a  cart  track,  which  lay  opposite  the  inn  and 
marked  the  end  of  the  great  estate  and  the 
beginning  of  the  open  moors.  March  plodded 
after  him  with  the  same  idle  perseverance,  and 
found  him  staring  through  a  gap  in  giant  weeds 
and  thorns  at  the  flat  face  of  a  painted  pal- 
ing. From  behind  the  paling  rose  the  great 
gray  columns  of  a  row  of  poplars,  which  filled 
the  heavens  above  them  with  dark-green  shadow 
and  shook  faintly  in  a  wind  which  had  sunk 
slowly  into  a  breeze.  The  afternoon  was  al- 
ready deepening  into  evening,  and  the  titanic 
shadows  of  the  poplars  lengthened  over  a  third 
of  the  landscape. 

"Are  you  a  first-class  criminal?"  asked  Fisher, 
in  a  friendly  tone.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  not.  But 
I  think  I  can  manage  to  be  a  sort  of  fourth-rate 
burglar." 

19 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

And  before  his  companion  could  reply  he  had 
managed  to  swing  himself  up  and  over  the  fence ; 
March  followed  without  much  bodily  effort,  but 
with  considerable  mental  disturbance.  The 
poplars  grew  so  close  against  the  fence  that  they 
had  some  difficulty  in  slipping  past  them,  and 
beyond  the  poplars  they  could  see  only  a  high 
hedge  of  laurel,  green  and  lustrous  in  the  level 
sun.  Something  in  this  limitation  by  a  series  of 
living  walls  made  him  feel  as  if  he  were  really 
entering  a  shattered  house  instead  of  an  open 
field.  It  was  as  if  he  came  in  by  a  disused 
door  or  window  and  found  the  way  blocked  by 
furniture.  When  they  had  circumvented  the 
laurel  hedge,  they  came  out  on  a  sort  of  terrace 
of  turf,  which  fell  by  one  green  step  to  an  ob- 
long lawn  like  a  bowling  green.  Beyond  this 
was  the  only  building  in  sight,  a  low  conserv- 
atory, which  seemed  far  away  from  anywhere, 
like  a  glass  cottage  standing  in  its  own  fields  in 
fairyland.  Fisher  knew  that  lonely  look  of  the 
outlying  parts  of  a  great  house  well  enough.  He 
realized  that  it  is  more  of  a  satire  on  aristocracy 
than  if  it  were  choked  with  weeds  and  littered 
with  ruins.  For  it  is  not  neglected  and  yet  it 
is  deserted;  at  any  rate,  it  is  disused.  It  is 
regularly  swept  and  garnished  for  a  master  who 
never  comes. 

Looking  over  the  lawn,  however,  he  saw  one 
object  which  he  had  not  apparently  expected. 
20 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

It  was  a  sort  of  tripod  supporting  a  large  disk 
like  the  round  top  of  a  table  tipped  sideways, 
and  it  was  not  until  they  had  dropped  on  to  the 
lawn  and  walked  across  to  look  at  it  that  March 
realized  that  it  was  a  target.  It  was  worn  and 
weatherstained;  the  gay  colors  of  its  concentric 
rings  were  faded;  possibly  it  had  been  set  up  in 
those  far-off  Victorian  days  when  there  was  a 
fashion  of  archery.  March  had  one  of  his 
vague  visions  of  ladies  in  cloudy  crinolines  and 
gentlemen  in  outlandish  hats  and  whiskers  re- 
visiting that  lost  garden  like  ghosts. 

Fisher,  who  was  peering  more  closely  at  the 
target,  startled  him  by  an  exclamation. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.  "Somebody  has  been 
peppering  this  thing  with  shot,  after  all,  and 
quite  lately,  too.  Why,  I  believe  old  Jink's 
been  trying  to  improve  his  bad  shooting  here." 

"Yes,  and  it  looks  as  if  it  still  wanted  im- 
proving," answered  March,  laughing.  "Not 
one  of  these  shots  is  anywhere  near  the  bull's- 
eye  ;  they  seem  just  scattered  about  in  the  wildest 
way." 

"In  the  wildest  way,"  repeated  Fisher,  still 
peering  intently  at  the  target.  He  seemed 
merely  to  assent,  but  March  fancied  his  eye  was 
shining  under  its  sleepy  lid  and  that  he  straight- 
ened his  stooping  figure  with  a  strange  effort. 

"Excuse  me  a  moment,"  he  said,  feeling  in 
his  pockets.     "I  think  I've  got  some  of  my  chem~ 

21 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

icals;  and  after  that  we'll  go  up  to  the  house." 
And  he  stooped  again  over  the  target,  putting 
something  with  his  finger  over  each  of  the  shot- 
holes,  so  far  as  March  could  see  merely  a  dull- 
gray  smear.  Then  they  went  through  the 
gathering  twilight  up  the  long  green  avenues  to 
the  great  house. 

Here  again,  however,  the  eccentric  investi- 
gator did  not  enter  by  the  front  door.  He 
walked  round  the  house  until  he  found  a  window 
open,  and,  leaping  into  it,  introduced  his  friend 
to  what  appeared  to  be  the  gun-room.  Rows  of 
the  regular  instruments  for  bringing  down  birds 
stood  against  the  walls ;  but  across  a  table  in  the 
window  lay  one  or  two  weapons  of  a  heavier  and 
more  formidable  pattern. 

"Hullo!  these  are  Burke's  big-game  rifles," 
said  Fisher.  "I  never  knew  he  kept  them  here." 
He  lifted  one  of  them,,  examined  it  briefly,  and 
put  it  down  again,  frowning  heavily.  Almost 
as  he  did  so  a  strange  young  man  came  hurriedly 
into  the  room.  He  was  dark  and  sturdy,  with 
a  bumpy  forehead  and  a  bulldog  jaw,  and  he 
spoke  with  a  curt  apology. 

"I  left  Major  Burke's  guns  here,"  he  said, 
"and  he  wants  them  packed  up.  He's  going 
away  to-night." 

And  he  carried  off  the  two  rifles  without  cast- 
ing a  glance  at  the  stranger;  through  the  open 
window  they  could  see  his  short,  dark  figure 

22 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

walking  away  across  the  glimmering  garden. 
Fisher  got  out  of  the  window  again  and  stood 
looking  after  him. 

"That's  Halkett,  whom  I  told  you  about,"  he 
said.  "I  knew  he  was  a  sort  of  secretary  and 
had  to  do  with  Burke's  papers;  but  I  never  knew 
he  had  anything  to  do  with  his  guns.  But  he's 
just  the  sort  of  silent,  sensible  little  devil  who 
might  be  very  good  at  anything;  the  sort  of  man 
you  know  for  years  before  you  find  he's  a  chess 
champion." 

He  had  begun  to  walk  in  the  direction  of  the 
disappearing  secretary,  and  they  soon  came 
within  sight  of  the  rest  of  the  house-party  talking 
and  laughing  on  the  lawn.  They  could  see  the 
tall  figure  and  loose  mane  of  the  lion-hunter 
dominating  the  little  group. 

uBy  the  way,"  observed  Fisher,  "when  we 
were  talking  about  Burke  and  Halkett,  I  said 
that  a  man  couldn't  very  well  write  with  a  gun. 
Well,  I'm  not  so  sure  now.  Did  you  ever  hear 
of  an  artist  so  clever  that  he  could  draw  with 
a  gun?  There's  a  wonderful  chap  loose  about 
here." 

Sir  Howard  hailed  Fisher  and  his  friend  the 
journalist  with  almost  boisterous  amiability.  The 
latter  was  presented  to  Major  Burke  and  Mr. 
Halkett  and  also  (by  way  of  a  parenthesis)  to 
his  host,  Mr.  Jenkins,  a  commonplace  little  man 
in  loud  tweeds,  whom  everybody  else  seemed 
3  23 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

to  treat  with  a  sort  of  affection,  as  if  he  were  a 
baby. 

The  irrepressible  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer 
was  still  talking  about  the  birds  he  had  brought 
down,  the  birds  that  Burke  and  Halkett  had 
brought  down,  and  the  birds  that  Jenkins,  their 
host,  had  failed  to  bring  down.  It  seemed  to 
be  a  sort  of  sociable  monomania. 

"You  and  your  big  game,"  he  ejaculated, 
aggressively,  to  Burke.  "Why,  anybody  could 
shoot  big  game.  You  want  to  be  a  shot  to  shoot 
small  game." 

"Quite  so,"  interposed  Home  Fisher.  "Now 
if  only  a  hippopotamus  could  fly  up  in  the  air  out 
of  that  bush,  or  you  preserved  flying  elephants 
on  the  estate,  why,  then " 

"Why  even  Jink  might  hit  that  sort  of  bird," 
cried  Sir  Howard,  hilariously  slapping  his  host 
on  the  back.  "Even  he  might  hit  a  haystack  or 
a  hippopotamus." 

"Look  here,  you  fellows,"  said  Fisher.  "I 
want  you  to  come  along  with  me  for  a  minute 
and  shoot  at  something  else.  Not  a  hippopota- 
mus. Another  kind  of  queer  animal  I've  found 
on  the  estate.  It's  an  animal  with  three  legs  and 
one  eye,  and  it's  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow." 

"What  the  deuce  are  you  talking  about?" 
asked  Burke. 

"You  come  along  and  see,"  replied  Fisher, 
cheerfully. 

24 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

Such  people  seldom  reject  anything  nonsen- 
sical, for  they  are  always  seeking  for  something 
new.  They  gravely  rearmed  themselves  from 
the  gun-room  and  trooped  along  at  the  tail  of 
their  guide,  Sir  Howard  only  pausing,  in  a  sort 
of  ecstasy,  to  point  out  the  celebrated  gilt  sum- 
merhouse  on  which  the  gilt  weathercock  still 
stood  crooked.  It  was  dusk  turning  to  dark  by 
the  time  they  reached  the  remote  green  by  the 
poplars  and  accepted  the  new  and  aimless  game 
of  shooting  at  the  old  mark. 

The  last  light  seemed  to  fade  from  the  lawn, 
and  the  poplars  against  the  sunset  were  like 
great  plumes  upon  a  purple  hearse,  when  the 
futile  procession  finally  curved  round  and  came 
out  in  front  of  the  target. 

Sir  Howard  again  slapped  his  host  on  the 
shoulder,  shoving  him  playfully  forward  to  take 
the  first  shot.  The  shoulder  and  arm  he  touched 
seemed  unnaturally  stiff  and  angular.  Mr. 
Jenkins  was  holding  his  gun  in  an  attitude  more 
awkward  than  any  that  his  satiric  friends  had 
seen  or  expected. 

At  the  same  instant  a  horrible  scream  seemed 
to  come  from  nowhere.  It  was  so  unnatural 
and  so  unsuited  to  the  scene  that  it  might  have 
been  made  by  some  inhuman  thing  flying  on  wings 
above  them  or  eavesdropping  in  the  dark  woods 
beyond.  But  Fisher  knew  that  it  had  started 
and  stopped  on  the  pale  lips  of  Jefferson  Jenkins, 
25 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

of  Montreal,  and  no  one  at  that  moment  catch- 
ing sight  of  Jefferson  Jenkins's  face  would  have 
complained  that  it  was  commonplace. 

The  next  moment  a  torrent  of  guttural  but 
good-humored  oaths  came  from  Major  Burke 
as  he  and  the  two  other  men  saw  what  was  in 
front  of  them.  The  target  stood  up  in  the  dim 
grass  like  a  dark  goblin  grinning  at  them,  and 
it  was  literally  grinning.  It  had  two  eyes  like 
stars,  and  in  similar  livid  points  of  light  were 
picked  out  the  two  upturned  and  open  nostrils 
and  the  two  ends  of  the  wide  and  tight  mouth. 
A  few  white  dots  above  each  eye  indicated 
the  hoary  eyebrows;  and  one  of  them  ran  up- 
ward almost  erect.  It  was  a  brilliant  caricature 
done  in  bright  botted  lines  and  March  knew  of 
whom.  It  shone  in  the  shadowy  grass,  smeared 
with  sea  fire  as  if  one  of  the  submarine  monsters 
had  crawled  into  the  twilight  garden;  but  it  had 
the  head  of  a  dead  man. 

"It's  only  luminous  paint,"  said  Burke.  "Old 
Fisher's  been  having  a  joke  with  that  phosphor- 
escent stuff  of  his." 

"Seems  to  be  meant  for  old  Puggy,"  observed 
Sir  Howard.     "Hits  him  off  very  well." 

With  that  they  all  laughed,  except  Jenkins. 
When  they  had  all  done,  he  made  a  noise  like 
the  first  effort  of  an  animal  to  laugh,  and 
Home  Fisher  suddenly  strode  across  to  him 
and  said: 

26 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

"Mr.  Jenkins,  I  must  speak  to  you  at  once  in 
private." 

It  was  by  the  little  watercourse  in  the  moors, 
on  the  slope  under  the  hanging  rock,  that  March 
met  his  new  friend  Fisher,  by  appointment, 
shortly  after  the  ugly  and  almost  grotesque  scene 
that  had  broken  up  the  group  in  the  garden. 

"It  was  a  monkey-trick  of  mine,"  observed 
Fisher,  gloomily,  "putting  phosphorus  on  the 
target;  but  the  only  chance  to  make  him  jump 
was  to  give  him  the  horrors  suddenly.  And 
when  he  saw  the  face  he'd  shot  at  shining  on  the 
target  he  practiced  on,  all  lit  up  with  an  infernal 
light,  he  did  jump.  Quite  enough  for  my  own 
intellectual  satisfaction." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  understand  even 
now,"  said  March,  "exactly  what  he  did  cw*  why 
he  did  it." 

"You  ought  to,"  replied  Fisher,  with  his 
rather  dreary  smile,  "for  you  gave  me  the  first 
suggestion  yourself.  Oh  yes,  you  did;  and  it  was 
a  very  shrewd  one.  You  said  a  man  wouldn't 
take  sandwiches  with  him  to  dine  at  a  great 
house.  It  was  quite  true;  and  the  inference  was 
that,  though  he  was  going  there,  he  didn't  mean 
to  dine  there.  Or,  at  any  rate,  that  he  might 
not  be  dining  there.  It  occurred  to  me  at  once 
that  he  probably  expected  the  visit  to  be  un- 
pleasant, or  the  reception  doubtful,  or  something 
that  would  prevent  his  accepting  hospitality. 
27 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

Then  it  struck  me  that  TurnbulL  was  a  terror  to 
certain  shady  characters  in  the  past,  and  that 
he  had  come  down  to  identify  and  denounce  one 
of  them.  The  chances  at  the  start  pointed  to 
the  host — that  is,  Jenkins.  I'm  morally  certain 
now  that  Jenkins  was  the  undesirable  alien  Turn- 
bull  wanted  to  convict  in  another  shooting-affair, 
but  you  see  the  shooting  gentleman  had  another 
shot  in  his  locker." 

"But  you  said  he  would  have  to  be  a  very  good 
shot,"  protested  March. 

"Jenkins  is  a  very  good  shot,"  said  Fisher. 
"A  very  good  shot  who  can  pretend  to  be  a  very 
bad  shot.  Shall  I  tell  you  the  second  hint  I  hit 
on,  after  yours,  to  make  me  think  it  was 
Jenkins?  It  was  my  cousin's  account  of  his 
bad  shooting.  He'd  shot  a  cockade  off  a  hat 
and  a  weathercock  off  a  building.  Now,  in 
fact,  a  man  must  shoot  very  well  indeed  to  shoot 
so  badly  as  that.  He  must  shoot  very  neatly  to 
hit  the  cockade  and  not  the  head,  or  even  the  hat. 
If  the  shots  had  really  gone  at  random,  the 
chances  are  a  thousand  to  one  that  they  would 
not  have  hit  such  prominent  and  picturesque 
objects.  They  were  chosen  because  they  were 
prominent  and  picturesque  objects.  They  make 
a  story  to  go  the  round  of  society.  He  keeps  the 
crooked  weathercock  in  the  summerhouse  to 
perpetuate  the  story  of  a  legend.  And  then  he 
lay  in  wait  with  his  evil  eye  and  wicked  gun, 
28 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

safely  ambushed  behind  the  legend  of  his  own 
incompetence. 

"But  there  is  more  than  that.  There  is  the 
summerhouse  itself.  I  mean  there  is  the  whole 
thing.  There's  all  that  Jenkins  gets  chaffed 
about,  the  gilding  and  the  gaudy  colors  and  all 
the  vulgarity  that's  supposed  to  stamp  him  as  an 
upstart.  Now,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  upstarts 
generally  don't  do  this.  God  knows  there's 
enough  of  'em  in  society;  and  one  knows  'em  well 
enough.  And  this  is  the  very  last  thing  they  do. 
They're  generally  only  too  keen  to  know  the 
right  thing  and  do  it;  and  they  instantly  put 
themselves  body  and  soul  into  the  hands  of  art 
decorators  and  art  experts,  who  do  the  whole 
thing  for  them.  There's  hardly  another  million- 
aire alive  who  has  the  moral  courage  to  have 
a  gilt  monogram  on  a  chair  like  that  one  in 
the  gun-room.  For  that  matter,  there's  the  name 
as  well  as  the  monogram.  Names  like  Tompkins 
and  Jenkins  and  Jinks  are  funny  without  being 
vulgar;  I  mean  they  are  vulgar  without  being 
common.  If  you  prefer  it,  they  are  common- 
place without  being  common.  They  are  just  the 
names  to  be  chosen  to  look  ordinary,  but  they're 
really  rather  extraordinary.  Do  you  know  many 
people  called  Tompkins?  It's  a  good  deal  rarer 
than  Talbot.  It's  pretty  much  the  same  with  the 
comic  clothes  of  the  parvenu.  Jenkins  dresses 
like  a  character  in  Punch.    But  that's  because  he 

29 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

is  a  character  in  Punch.  I  mean  he's  a  fictitious 
character.  He's  a  fabulous  animal.  He  doesn't 
exist. 

"Have  you  ever  considered  what  it  must  be 
like  to  be  a  man  who  doesn't  exist?  I  mean  to 
be  a  man  with  a  fictitious  character  that  he  has 
to  keep  up  at  the  expense  not  merely  of  personal 
talents:  To  be  a  new  kind  of  hypocrite  hiding 
a  talent  in  a  new  kind  of  napkin.  This  man  has 
chosen  his  hypocrisy  very  ingeniously;  it  was 
really  a  new  one.  A  subtle  villain  has  dressed 
up  as  a  dashing  gentleman  and  a  worthy  business 
man  and  a  philanthropist  and  a  saint;  but  the 
loud  checks  of  a  comical  little  cad  were  really 
rather  a  new  disguise.  But  the  disguise  must  be 
very  irksome  to  a  man  who  can  really  do  things. 
This  is  a  dexterous  little  cosmopolitan  gutter- 
snipe who  can  do  scores  of  things,  not  only  shoot, 
but  draw  and  paint,  and  probably  play  the  fiddle. 
Now  a  man  like  that  may  find  the  hiding  of  his 
talents  useful;  but  he  could  never  help  wanting 
to  use  them  where  they  were  useless.  If  he  can 
draw,  he  will  draw  absent-mindedly  on  blotting 
paper.  I  suspect  this  rascal  has  often  drawn 
poor  old  Puggy's  face  on  blotting  paper.  Prob- 
ably he  began  doing  it  in  blots  as  he  afterward 
did  it  in  dots,  or  rather  shots.  It  was  the  same 
sort  of  thing;  he  found  a  disused  target  in  a  de- 
serted yard  and  couldn't  resist  indulging  in  a 
little  secret  shooting,  like  secret  drinking.     You 

30 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

thought  the  shots  all  scattered  and  irregular,  and 
so  they  were;  but  not  accidental.  No  two  dis- 
tances were  alike;  but  the  different  points  were 
exactly  where  he  wanted  to  put  them.  There's 
nothing  needs  such  mathematical  precision  as  a 
wild  caricature.  I've  dabbled  a  little  in  drawing 
myself,  and  I  assure  you  that  to  put  one  dot 
where  you  want  it  is  a  marvel  with  a  pen  close 
to  a  piece  of  paper.  It  was  a  miracle  to  do  it 
across  a  garden  with  a  gun.  But  a  man  who  can 
work  those  miracles  will  always  itch  to  work 
them,  if  it's  only  in  the  dark." 

After  a  pause  March  observed,  thoughtfully, 
"But  he  couldn't' have  brought  him  down  like  a 
bird  with  one  of  those  little  guns." 

"No;  that  was  why  I  went  into  the  gun-room," 
replied  Fisher.  "He  did  it  with  one  of  Burke's 
rifles,  and  Burke  thought  he  knew  the  sound  of 
it.  That's  why  he  rushed  out  without  a  hat, 
looking  so  wild.  He  saw  nothing  but  a  car  pass- 
ing quickly,  which  he  followed  for  a  little  way, 
and  then  concluded  he'd  made  a  mistake." 

There  was  another  silence,  during  which  Fisher 
sat  on  a  great  stone  as  motionless  as  on  their 
first  meeting,  and  watched  the  gray  and  silver 
river  eddying  past  under  the  bushes.  Then 
March  said,  abruptly,  "Of  course  he  knows  the 
truth  now." 

"Nobody  knows  the  truth  but  you  and  I," 
answered  Fisher,  with  a  certain  softening  in  his 

3i 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

voice.     "And  I  don't  think  you  and  I  will  ever 
quarrel." 

uWhat  do  you  mean?"  asked  March,  in  an 
altered  accent.  "What  have  you  done  about 
it?" 

Home  Fisher  continued  to  gaze  steadily  at 
the  eddying  stream.  At  last  he  said,  "The  police 
have  proved  it  was  a  motor  accident." 

"But  you  know  it  was  not." 

"I  told  you  that  I  know  too  much,"  replied 
Fisher,  with  his  eye  on  the  river.  "I  know  that, 
and  I  know  a  great  many  other  things.  I  know 
the  atmosphere  and  the  way  the  whole  thing 
works.  I  know  this  fellow  has  succeeded  in 
making  himself  something  incurably  common- 
place and  comic.  I  know  you  can't  get  up  a  per- 
secution of  old  Toole  or  Little  Tich.  If  I  were 
to  tell  Hoggs  or  Halkett  that  old  Jink  was  an 
assassin,  they  would  almost  die  of  laughter  be- 
fore my  eyes.  Oh,  I  don't  say  their  laughter's 
quite  innocent,  though  it's  genuine  in  its  way. 
They  want  old  Jink,  and  they  couldn't  do  with- 
out him.  I  don't  say  I'm  quite  innocent.  I  like 
Hoggs;  I  don't  want  him  to  be  down  and  out; 
and  he'd  be  done  for  if  Jink  can't  pay  for  his 
coronet.  They  were  devilish  near  the  line  at 
the  last  election.  But  the  only  real  objection  to 
it  is  that  it's  impossible.  Nobody  would  believe 
it;  it's  not  in  the  picture.  The  crooked  weather- 
cock would  always  turn  it  into  a  joke." 

32 


The  Face  In  the  Target 

"Don't  you  think  this  is  infamous?"  asked 
March,  quietly. 

"I  think  a  good  many  things,"  replied  the 
other.  "If  you  people  ever  happen  to  blow  the 
whole  tangle  of  society  to  hell  with  dynamite, 
I  don't  know  that  the  human  race  will  be  much 
the  worse.  But  don't  be  too  hard  on  me  merely 
because  I  know  what  society  is.  That's  why  I 
moon  away  my  time  over  things  like  stinking 
fish." 

There  was  a  pause  as  he  settled  himself  down 
again  by  the  stream;  and  then  he  added: 

"I  told  you  before  I  had  to  throw  back  the 
big  fish." 


II 

THE  VANISHING  PRINCE 

*  I  SHIS  tale  begins  among  a  tangle  of  tales 
■*•  round  a  name  that  is  at  once  recent  and 
legendary.  The  name  is  that  of  Michael  O'Neill, 
popularly  called  Prince  Michael,  partly  because 
he  claimed  descent  from  ancient  Fenian  princes, 
and  partly  because  he  was  credited  with  a  plan 
to  make  himself  prince  president  of  Ireland,  as 
the  last  Napoleon  did  of  France.  He  was  un- 
doubtedly a  gentleman  of  honorable  pedigree  and 
of  many  accomplishments,  but  two  of  his  accom- 
plishments emerged  from  all  the  rest.  He  had 
a  talent  for  appearing  when  he  was  not  wanted 
and  a  talent  for  disappearing  when  he  was 
wanted,  especially  when  he  was  wanted  by  the 
police.  It  may  be  added  that  his  disappearances 
were  more  dangerous  than  his  appearances.  In 
the  latter  he  seldom  went  beyond  the  sensational 
— pasting  up  seditious  placards,  tearing  down 
official  placards,  making  flamboyant  speeches,  or 
unfurling  forbidden  flags.  But  in  order  to  effect 
the  former  he  would  sometimes  fight  for  his  free- 
dom with  startling  energy,  from  which  men  were 
sometimes  lucky  to  escape  with  a  broken  head 

34 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

instead  of  a  broken  neck.  His  most  famous  feats 
of  escape,  however,  were  due  to  dexterity  and 
not  to  violence.  On  a  cloudless  summer  morn- 
ing he  had  come  down  a  country  road  white  with 
dust,  and,  pausing  outside  a  farmhouse,  had 
told  the  farmer's  daughter,  with  elegant  indiffer- 
ence, that  the  local  police  were  in  pursuit  of  him. 
The  girl's  name  was  Bridget  Royce,  a  somber 
and  even  sullen  type  of  beauty,  and  she  looked 
at  him  darkly,  as  if  in  doubt,  and  said,  "Do  you 
want  me  to  hide  you?"  Upon  which  he  only 
laughed,  leaped  lightly  over  the  stone  wall,  and 
strode  toward  the  farm,  merely  throwing  over 
his  shoulder  the  remark,  "Thank  you,  I  have 
generally  been  quite  capable  of  hiding  myself." 
In  which  proceeding  he  acted  with  a  tragic 
ignorance  of  the  nature  of  women;  and  there 
fell  on  his  path  in  that  sunshine  a  shadow  of 
doom. 

While  he  disappeared  through  the  farmhouse 
the  girl  remained  for  a  few  moments  looking  up 
the  road,  and  two  perspiring  policemen  came 
plowing  up  to  the  door  where  she  stood.  Though 
still  angry,  she  was  still  silent,  and  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  later  the  officers  had  searched  the  house 
and  were  already  inspecting  the  kitchen  garden 
and  cornfield  behind  it.  In  the  ugly  reaction  of 
her  mood  she  might  have  been  tempted  even  to 
point  out  the  fugitive,  but  for  a  small  difficulty — 
that  she  had  no  more  notion  than  the  policemen 
35 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

had  of  where  he  could  possibly  have  gone.  The 
kitchen  garden  was  inclosed  by  a  very  low  wall, 
and  the  cornfield  beyond  lay  aslant  like  a  square 
patch  on  a  great  green  hill  on  which  he  could  still 
have  been  seen  even  as  a  dot  in  the  distance. 
Everything  stood  solid  in  its  familiar  place ;  the 
apple  tree  was  too  small  to  support  or  hide  a 
climber ;  the  only  shed  stood  open  and  obviously 
empty;  there  was  no  sound  save  the  droning  of 
summer  flies  and  the  occasional  flutter  of  a  bird 
unfamiliar  enough  to  be  surprised  by  the  scare- 
crow in  the  field;  there  was  scarcely  a  shadow 
save  a  few  blue  lines  that  fell  from  the  thin  tree; 
every  detail  was  picked  out  by  the  brilliant  day- 
light as  if  in  a  microscope.  The  girl  described 
the  scene  later,  with  all  the  passionate  realism  of 
her  race,  and,  whether  or  no  the  policemen  had 
a  similar  eye  for  the  picturesque,  they  had  at 
least  an  eye  for  the  facts  of  the  case,  and  were 
compelled  to  give  up  the  chase  and  retire  from 
the  scene.  Bridget  Royce  remained  as  if  in  a 
trance,  staring  at  the  sunlit  garden  in  which  a 
man  had  just  vanished  like  a  fairy.  She  was  still 
in  a  sinister  mood,  and  the  miracle  took  in  her 
mind  a  character  of  unfriendliness  and  fear,  as 
if  the  fairy  were  decidedly  a  bad  fairy.  The  sun 
upon  the  glittering  garden  depressed  her  more 
than  the  darkness,  but  she  continued  to  stare  at 
it.  Then  the  world  itself  went  half-witted  and 
she  screamed.  The  scarecrow  moved  in  the  sun- 
36 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

light.  It  had  stood  with  its  back  to  her  in  a 
battered  old  black  hat  and  a  tattered  garment, 
and  with  all  its  tatters  flying,  it  strode  away 
across  the  hill. 

She  did  not  analyze  the  audacious  trick  by 
which  the  man  had  turned  to  his  advantage  the 
subtle  effects  of  the  expected  and  the  obvious; 
she  was  still  under  the  cloud  of  more  individual 
complexities,  and  she  noticed  most  of  all  that 
the  vanishing  scarecrow  did  not  even  turn  to  look 
at  the  farm.  And  the  fates  that  were  running 
so  adverse  to  his  fantastic  career  of  freedom 
ruled  that  his  next  adventure,  though  it  had  the 
same  success  in  another  quarter,  should  increase 
the  danger  in  this  quarter.  Among  the  many 
similar  adventures  related  of  him  in  this  manner 
it  is  also  said  that  some  days  afterward  another 
girl,  named  Mary  Cregan,  found  him  concealed 
on  the  farm  where  she  worked;  and  if  the  story 
is  true,  she  must  also  have  had  the  shock  of  an 
uncanny  experience,  for  when  she  was  busy  at 
some  lonely  task  in  the  yard  she  heard  a  voice 
speaking  out  of  the  well,  and  found  that  the  ec- 
centric had  managed  to  drop  himself  into  the 
bucket  which  was  some  little  way  below,  the  well 
only  partly  full  of  water.  In  this  case,  however, 
he  had  to  appeal  to  the  woman  to  wind  up  the 
rope.  And  men  say  it  was  when  this  news  was 
told  to  the  other  woman  that  her  soul  walked 
over  the  border  line  of  treason. 
37 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

Such,  at  least,  were  the  stories  told  of  him  in 
the  countryside,  and  there  were  many  more — 
as  that  he  had  stood  insolently  in  a  splendid  green 
dressing  gown  on  the  steps  of  a  great  hotel,  and 
then  led  the  police  a  chase  through  a  long  suite 
of  grand  apartments,  and  finally  through  his  own 
bedroom  on  to  a  balcony  that  overhung  the  river. 
The  moment  the  pursuers  stepped  on  to  the  bal- 
cony it  broke  under  them,  and  they  dropped  pell- 
mell  into  the  eddying  waters,  while  Michael,  who 
had  thrown  off  his  gown  and  dived,  was  able  to 
swim  away.  It  was  said  that  he  had  carefully 
cut  away  the  props  so  that  they  would  not  sup- 
port anything  so  heavy  as  a  policeman.  But 
here  again  he  was  immediately  fortunate,  yet 
ultimately  unfortunate,  for  it  is  said  that  one  of 
the  men  was  drowned,  leaving  a  family  feud 
which  made  a  little  rift  in  his  popularity.  These 
stories  can  now  be  told  in  some  detail,  not  be- 
cause they  are  the  most  marvelous  of  his  many 
adventures,  but  because  these  alone  were  not  cov- 
ered with  silence  by  the  loyalty  of  the  peasantry. 
These  alone  found  their  way  into  official  reports, 
and  it  is  these  which  three  of  the  chief  officials  of 
the  country  were  reading  and  discussing  when  the 
more  remarkable  part  of  this  story  begins. 

Night  was  far  advanced  and  the  lights  shone 

in  the  cottage  that  served  for  a  temporary  police 

station  near  the  coast.     On  one  side  of  it  were 

the  last  houses  of  the  straggling  village,  and  on 

38 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

the  other  nothing  but  a  waste  moorland  stretch- 
ing away  toward  the  sea,  the  line  of  which  was 
broken  by  no  landmark  except  a  solitary  tower 
of  the  prehistoric  pattern  still  found  in  Ireland, 
standing  up  as  slender  as  a  column,  but  pointed 
like  a  pyramid.  At  a  wooden  table  in  front  of 
the  window,  which  normally  looked  out  on  this 
landscape,  sat  two  men  in  plain  clothes,  but  with 
something  of  a  military  bearing,  for  indeed  they 
were  the  two  chiefs  of  the  detective  service  of 
that  district.  The  senior  of  the  two,  both  in  age 
and  rank,  was  a  sturdy  man  with  a  short  white 
beard,  and  frosty  eyebrows  fixed  in  a  frown 
which  suggested  rather  worry  than  severity. 

His  name  was  Morton,  and  he  was  a  Liver- 
pool man  long  pickled  in  the  Irish  quarrels,  and 
doing  his  duty  among  them  in  a  sour  fashion  not 
altogether  unsympathetic.  He  had  spoken  a 
few  sentences  to  his  companion,  Nolan,  a  tall, 
dark  man  with  a  cadaverous  equine  Irish  face, 
when  he  seemed  to  remember  something  and 
touched  a  bell  which  rang  in  another  room  The 
subordinate  he  had  summoned  immediately  ap- 
peared with  a  sheaf  of  papers  in  his  hand. 

"Sit  down,  Wilson,"  he  said.  'Those  are  the 
dispositions,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  third  officer.  "I  think  I've 
got  all  there  is  to  be  got  out  of  them,  so  I  sent 
the  people  away." 

"Did  Mary  Cregan  give  evidence?"  asked 
4  39 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

Morton,  with  a  frown  that  looked  a  little  heavier 
than  usual. 

"No,  but  her  master  did,"  answered  tne  man 
called  Wilson,  who  had  flat,  red  hair  and  a  plain, 
pale  face,  not  without  sharpness.  "I  think  he's 
hanging  round  the  girl  himself  and  is  out  against 
a  rival.  There's  always  some  reason  of  that 
sort  when  we  are  told  the  truth  about  anything. 
And  you  bet  the  other  girl  told  right  enough." 

"Well,  let's  hope  they'll  be  some  sort  of  use," 
remarked  Nolan,  in  a  somewhat  hopeless  man- 
ner, gazing  out  into  the  darkness. 

"Anything  is  to  the  good,"  said  Morton,  "that 
lets  us  know  anything  about  him." 

"Do  we  know  anything  about  him?"  asked  the 
melancholy  Irishman. 

"We  know  one  thing  about  him,"  said  Wilson, 
"and  it's  the  one  thing  that  nobody  ever  knew 
before.    We  know  where  he  is." 

"Are  you  sure?"  inquired  Morton,  looking  at 
him  sharply. 

"Quite  sure,"  replied  his  assistant.  "At  this 
very  minute  he  is  in  that  tower  over  there  by 
the  shore.  If  you  go  near  enough  you'll  see  the 
candle  burning  in  the  window." 

As  he  spoke  the  noise  of  a  horn  sounded  on 
the  road  outside,  and  a  moment  after  they  heard 
the  throbbing  of  a  motor  car  brought  to  a  stand- 
still before  the  door.  Morton  instantly  sprang 
to  his  feet. 

40 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

"Thank  the  Lord  that's  the  car  from  Dublin," 
he  said.  "I  can't  do  anything  without  special 
authority,  not  if  he  were  sitting  on  the  top  of 
the  tower  and  putting  out  his  tongue  at  us.  But 
the  chief  can  do  what  he  thinks  best." 

He  hurried  out  to  the  entrance  and  was  soon 
exchanging  greetings  with  a  big  handsome  man 
in  a  fur  coat,  who  brought  into  the  dingy  little 
station  the  indescribable  glow  of  the  great  cities 
and  the  luxuries  of  the  great  world. 

For  this  was  Sir  Walter  Carey,  an  official  of 
such  eminence  in  Dublin  Castle  that  nothing 
short  of  the  case  of  Prince  Michael  would  have 
brought  him  on  such  a  journey  in  the  middle  of 
the  night.  But  the  case  of  Prince  Michael,  as  it 
happened,  was  complicated  by  legalism  as  well 
as  lawlessness.  On  the  last  occasion  he  had 
escaped  by  a  forensic  quibble  and  not,  as  usual, 
by  a  private  escapade;  and  it  was  a  question 
whether  at  the  moment  he  was  amenable  to  the 
law  or  not.  It  might  be  necessary  to  stretch  a 
point,  but  a  man  like  Sir  Walter  could  probably 
stretch  it  as  far  as  he  liked. 

Whether  he  intended  to  do  so  was  a  question 
to  be  considered.  Despite  the  almost  aggressive 
touch  of  luxury  in  the  fur  coat,  it  soon  became 
apparent  that  Sir  Walter's  large  leonine  head 
was  for  use  as  well  as  ornament,  and  he  con- 
sidered the  matter  soberly  and  sanely  enough. 
Five  chairs  were  set  round  the  plain  deal  table, 
4i 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

for  who  should  Sir  Walter  bring  with  him  but 
his  young  relative  and  secretary,  Home  Fisher. 
Sir  Walter  listened  with  grave  attention,  and  his 
secretary  with  polite  boredom,  to  the  string  of 
episodes  by  which  the  police  had  traced  the  fly- 
ing rebel  from  the  steps  of  the  hotel  to  the  soli- 
tary tower  beside  the  sea.  There  at  least  he 
was  cornered  betweeen  the  moors  and  the  break- 
ers ;  and  the  scout  sent  by  Wilson  reported  him 
as  writing  under  a  solitary  candle,  perhaps  com- 
posing another  of  his  tremendous  proclamations. 
Indeed,  it  would  have  been  typical  of  him  to 
choose  it  as  the  place  in  which  finally  to  turn 
to  bay.  He  had  some  remote  claim  on  it,  as 
on  a  family  castle;  and  those  who  knew  him 
thought  him  capable  of  imitating  the  primitive 
Irish  chieftains  who  fell  fighting  against  the  sea. 

"I  saw  some  queer-looking  people  leaving  as 
I  came  in,"  said  Sir  Walter  Carey.  "I  suppose 
they  were  your  witnesses.  But  why  do  they 
turn  up  here  at  this  time  of  night?" 

Morton  smiled  grimly.  "They  come  here  by 
night  because  they  would  be  dead  men  if  they 
came  here  by  day.  They  are  criminals  commit- 
ting a  crime  that  is  more  horrible  here  than  theft 
or  murder." 

"What  crime  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  other, 
with  some  curiosity. 

"They  are  helping  the  law,"  said  Morton. 

There  was  a  silence,  and  Sir  Walter  considered 
42 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

the  papers  before  him  with  an  abstracted  eye. 
At  last  he  spoke. 

"Quite  so;  but  look  here,  if  the  local  feeling 
is  as  lively  as  that  there  are  a  good  many  points 
to  consider.  I  believe  the  new  Act  will  enable 
me  to  collar  him  now  if  I  think  it  best.  But  is 
it  best?  A  serious  rising  would  do  us  no  good 
in  Parliament,  and  the  government  has  enemies 
in  England  as  well  as  Ireland.  It  won't  do  if  I 
have  done  what  looks  a  little  like  sharp  practice, 
and  then  only  raised  a  revolution." 

"It's  all  the  other  way,"  said  the  man  called 
Wilson,  rather  quickly.  "There  won't  be  half 
so  much  of  a  revolution  if  you  arrest  him  as  there 
will  if  you  leave  him  loose  for  three  days  longer. 
But,  anyhow,  there  can't  be  anything  nowadays 
that  the  proper  police  can't  manage." 

"Mr.  Wilson  is  a  Londoner,"  said  the  Irish 
detective,  with  a  smile. 

"Yes,  I'm  a  cockney,  all  right,"  replied  Wilson, 
"and  I  think  I'm  all  the  better  for  that.  Espe- 
cially at  this  job,  oddly  enough." 

Sir  Walter  seemed  slightly  amused  at  the  per- 
tinacity of  the  third  officer,  and  perhaps  even 
more  amused  at  the  slight  accent  with  which  he 
spoke,  which  rendered  rather  needless  his  boast 
about  his  origin. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  asked,  "that  you 
know  more  about  the  business  here  because  you 
have  come  from  London?" 

43 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"Sounds  funny,  I  know,  but  I  do  believe  it," 
answered  Wilson.  "I  believe  these  affairs  want 
fresh  methods.  But  most  of  all  I  believe  they 
want  a  fresh  eye." 

The  superior  officers  laughed,  and  the  red- 
haired  man  went  on  with  a  slight  touch  of 
temper : 

"Well,  look  at  the  facts.  See  how  the  fellow 
got  away  every  time,  and  you'll  understand  what 
I  mean.  Why  was  he  able  to  stand  in  the  place 
of  the  scarecrow,  hidden  by  nothing  but  an  old 
hat?  Because  it  was  a  village  policeman  who 
knew  the  scarecrow  was  there,  was  expecting  it, 
and  therefore  took  no  notice  of  it.  Now  I  never 
expect  a  scarecrow.  I've  never  seen  one  in  the 
street,  and  I  stare  at  one  when  I  see  it  in  the 
field.  It's  a  new  thing  to  me  and  worth  noticing. 
And  it  was  just  the  same  when  he  hid  in  the 
well.  You  are  ready  to  find  a  well  in  a  place 
like  that;  you  look  for  a  well,  and  so  you  don't 
see  it.  I  don't  look  for  it,  and  therefore  I  do 
look  at  it." 

"It  is  certainly  an  idea,"  said  Sir  Walter,  smil- 
ing, "but  what  about  the  balcony?  Balconies  are 
occasionally  seen  in  London." 

"But  not  rivers  right  under  them,  as  if  it  was 
in  Venice,"  replied  Wilson. 

"It  is  certainly  a  new  idea,"  repeated  Sir 
Walter,  with  something  like  respect.  He  had 
all  the  love  of  the  luxurious  classes  for  new  ideas. 
44 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

But  he  also  had  a  critical  faculty,  and  was  in- 
clined to  think,  after  due  reflection,  that  it  was 
a  true  idea  as  well. 

Growing  dawn  had  already  turned  the  window 
panes  from  black  to  gray  when  Sir  Walter  got 
abruptly  to  his  feet.  The  others  rose  also,  tak- 
ing this  for  a  signal  that  the  arrest  was  to  be 
undertaken.  But  their  leader  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment in  deep  thought,  as  if  conscious  that  he 
had  come  to  a  parting  of  the  ways. 

Suddenly  the  silence  was  pierced  by  a  long, 
wailing  cry  from  the  dark  moors  outside.  The 
silence  that  followed  it  seemed  more  startling 
than  the  shriek  itself,  and  it  lasted  until  Nolan 
said,  heavily: 

"  'Tis  the  banshee.  Somebody  is  marked  for 
the  grave." 

His  long,  large-featured  face  was  as  pale  as 
a  moon,  and  it  was  easy  to  remember  that  he 
was  the  only  Irishman  in  the  room. 

"Well,  I  know  that  banshee,"  said  Wilson, 
cheerfully,  "ignorant  as  you  think  I  am  of  these 
things.  I  talked  to  that  banshee  myself  an  hour 
ago,  and  I  sent  that  banshee  up  to  the  tower 
and  told  her  to  sing  out  like  that  if  she  could  get 
a  glimpse  of  our  friend  writing  his  proclama- 
tion." 

"Do  you  mean  that  girl  Bridget  Royce  ?"  asked 
Morton,  drawing  his  frosty  brows  together. 
"Has  she  turned  king's  evidence  to  that  extent?" 
45 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"Yes,"  answered  Wilson.  "I  know  very  little 
of  these  local  things,  you  tell  me,  but  I  reckon  an 
angry  woman  is  much  the  same  in  all  countries." 

Nolan,  however,  seemed  still  moody  and  un- 
like himself.  "It's  an  ugly  noise  and  an  ugly 
business  altogether,"  he  said.  "If  it's  really  the 
end  of  Prince  Michael  it  may  well  be  the  end  of 
other  things  as  well.  When  the  spirit  is  on  him 
he  would  escape  by  a  ladder  of  dead  men,  and 
wade  through  that  sea  if  it  were  made  of 
blood." 

"Is  that  the  real  reason  of  your  pious  alarms?" 
asked  Wilson,  with  a  slight  sneer. 

The  Irishman's  pale  face  blackened  with  a 
new  passion. 

"I  have  faced  as  many  murderers  in  County 
Clare  as  you  ever  fought  with  in  Clapham  Junc- 
tion, Mr.  Cockney,"  he  said. 

"Hush,  please,"  said  Morton,  sharply.  "Wil- 
son, you  have  no  kind  of  right  to  imply  doubt  of 
your  superior's  conduct.  I  hope  you  will  prove 
yourself  as  courageous  and  trustworthy  as  he  has 
always  been." 

The  pale  face  of  the  red-haired  man  seemed 
a  shade  paler,  but  he  was  silent  and  composed, 
and  Sir  Walter  went  up  to  Nolan  with  marked 
/courtesy,  saying,  "Shall  we  go  outside  now,  and 
get  this  business  done?" 

Dawn  had  lifted,  leaving  a  wide  chasm  of 
white  between  a  great  gray  cloud  and  the  great 

46 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

gray  moorland,  beyond  which  the  tower  was  out- 
lined against  the  daybreak  and  the  sea. 

Something  in  its  plain  and  primitive  shape 
vaguely  suggested  the  dawn  in  the  first  days  of 
the  earth,  in  some  prehistoric  time  when  even 
the  colors  were  hardly  created,  when  there  was 
only  blank  daylight  between  cloud  and  clay. 
These  dead  hues  were  relieved  only  by  one  spot 
of  gold — the  spark  of  the  candle  alight  in  the 
window  of  the  lonely  tower,  and  burning  on  into 
the  broadening  daylight.  As  the  group  of  de- 
tectives, followed  by  a  cordon  of  policemen, 
spread  out  into  a  crescent  to  cut  off  all  escape,  the 
light  in  the  tower  flashed  as  if  it  were  moved  for 
a  moment,  and  then  went  out.  They  knew  the 
man  inside  had  realized  the  daylight  and  blown 
out  his  candle. 

"There  are  other  windows,  aren't  there?" 
asked  Morton,  "and  a  door,  of  course,  some- 
where round  the  corner?  Only  a  round  tower 
has  no  corners." 

"Another  example  of  my  small  suggestion," 
observed  Wilson,  quietly.  "That  queer  tower 
was  the  first  thing  I  saw  when  I  came  to  these 
parts;  and  I  can  tell  you  a  little  more  about  it — 
or,  at  any  rate,  the  outside  of  it.  There  are 
four  windows  altogether,  one  a  little  way  from 
this  one,  but  just  out  of  sight.  Those  are  both 
on  the  ground  floor,  and  so  is  the  third  on  the 
other  side,  making  a  sort  of  triangle.  But  the 
47 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

fourth  is  just  above  the  third,  and  I  suppose  it 
looks  on  an  upper  floor." 

"It's  only  a  sort  of  loft,  reached  by  a  ladder," 
said  Nolan.  "I've  played  in  the  place  when  I 
was  a  child.  It's  no  more  than  an  empty  shell." 
And  his  sad  face  grew  sadder,  thinking  perhaps 
of  the  tragedy  of  his  country  and  the  part  that 
he  played  in  it. 

"The  man  must  have  got  a  table  and  chair, 
at  any  rate,"  said  Wilson,  "but  no  doubt  he 
could  have  got  those  from  some  cottage.  If  I 
might  make  a  suggestion,  sir,  I  think  we  ought 
to  approach  all  the  five  entrances  at  once,  so  to 
speak.  One  of  us  should  go  to  the  door  and 
one  to  each  window;  Macbride  here  has  a  ladder 
for  the  upper  window." 

Mr.  Home  Fisher  languidly  turned  to  his  dis- 
tinguished relative  and  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"I  am  rather  a  convert  to  the  cockney  school 
of  psychology,"  he  said  in  an  almost  inaudible 
voice. 

The  others  seemed  to  feel  the  same  influence 
in  different  ways,  for  the  group  began  to  break 
up  in  the  manner  indicated.  Morton  moved 
toward  the  window  immediately  in  front  of 
them,  where  the  hidden  outlaw  had  just  snuffed 
the  candle;  Nolan,  a  little  farther  westward  to 
the  next  window;  while  Wilson,  followed  by 
Macbride  with  the  ladder,  went  round  to  the  two 
windows  at  the  back.  Sir  Walter  Carey  himself, 
48 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

followed  by  his  secretary,  began  to  walk  round 
toward  the  only  door,  to  demand  admittance 
in  a  more  regular  fashion. 

"He  will  be  armed,  of  course,"  remarked  Sir 
Walter,  casually. 

uBy  all  accounts, "  replied  Home  Fisher,  "he 
can  do  more  with  a  candlestick  than  most  men 
with  a  pistol.  But  he  is  pretty  sure  to  have  the 
pistol,  too." 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  question  was  answered 
with  a  tongue  of  thunder.  Morton  had  just 
placed  himself  in  front  of  the  nearest  window, 
his  broad  shoulders  blocking  the  aperture.  For 
an  instant  it  was  lit  from  within  as  with  red  fire, 
followed  by  a  thundering  throng  of  echoes.  The 
square  shoulders  seemed  to  alter  in  shape,  and 
the  sturdy  figure  collapsed  among  the  tall,  rank 
grasses  at  the  foot  of  the  tower.  A  puff  of 
smoke  floated  from  the  window  like  a  little  cloud. 
The  two  men  behind  rushed  to  the  spot  and 
raised  him,  but  he  was  dead. 

Sir  Walter  straightened  himself  and  called  out 
something  that  was  lost  in  another  noise  of  fir- 
ing; it  was  possible  that  the  police  were  already 
avenging  their  comrade  from  the  other  side, 
Fisher  had  already  raced  round  to  the  next 
window,  and  a  new  cry  of  astonishment  from  him 
brought  his  patron  to  the  same  spot.  Nolan,  the 
Irish  policeman,  had  also  fallen,  sprawling  all 
his  great  length  in  the  grass,  and  it  was  red  with 
49 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

his  blood.  He  was  still  alive  when  they  reached 
him,  but  there  was  death  on  his  face,  and  he  was 
only  able  to  make  a  final  gesture  telling  them  that 
all  was  over;  and,  with  a  broken  word  and  a 
heroic  effort,  motioning  them  on  to  where  his 
other  comrades  were  besieging  the  back  of  the 
tower.  Stunned  by  these  rapid  and  repeated 
shocks,  the  two  men  could  only  vaguely  obey  the 
gesture,  and,  finding  their  way  to  the  other 
windows  at  the  back,  they  discovered  a  scene 
equally  startling,  if  less  final  and  tragic.  The 
other  two  officers  were  not  dead  or  mortally 
wounded,  but  Macbride  lay  with  a  broken  leg 
and  his  ladder  on  top  of  him,  evidently  thrown 
down  from  the  top  window  of  the  tower;  while 
Wilson  lay  on  his  face,  quite  still  as  if  stunned, 
with  his  red  head  among  the  gray  and  silver  of 
the  sea  holly.  In  him,  however,  the  impotence 
was  but  momentary,  for  he  began  to  move  and 
rise  as  the  others  came  round  the  tower. 

"My  God!  it's  like  an  explosion!"  cried  Sir 
Walter;  and  indeed  it  was  the  only  word  for 
this  unearthly  energy,  by  which  one  man  had 
been  able  to  deal  death  or  destruction  on  three 
sides  of  the  same  small  triangle  at  the  same 
instant. 

Wilson  had  already  scrambled  to  his  feet  and 
with  splendid  energy  flew  again  at  the  window, 
revolver  in  hand.  He  fired  twice  into  the  open- 
ing and  then  disappeared  in  his  own  smoke ;  but 

50 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

the  thud  of  his  feet  and  the  shock  of  a  falling 
chair  told  them  that  the  intrepid  Londoner  had 
managed  at  last  to  leap  into  the  room.  Then 
followed  a  curious  silence ;  and  Sir  Walter,  walk- 
ing to  the  window  through  the  thinning  smoke, 
looked  into  the  hollow  shell  of  the  ancient  tower. 
Except  for  Wilson,  staring  around  him,  there 
was  nobody  there. 

The  inside  of  the  tower  was  a  single  empty 
room,  with  nothing  but  a  plain  wooden  chair  and 
a  table  on  which  were  pens,  ink  and  paper,  and 
the  candlestick.  Halfway  up  the  high  wall 
there  was  a  rude  timber  platform  under  the 
upper  window,  a  small  loft  which  was  more  like 
a  large  shelf.  It  was  reached  only  by  a  ladder, 
and  it  seemed  to  be  as  bare  as  the  bare  walls. 
Wilson  completed  his  survey  of  the  place  and 
then  went  and  stared  at  the  things  on  the  table. 
Then  he  silently  pointed  with  his  lean  forefinger 
at  the  open  page  of  the  large  notebook.  The 
writer  had  suddenly  stopped  writing,  even  in  the 
middle  of  a  word. 

"I  said  it  was  like  an  explosion,"  said  Sir 
Walter  Carey  at  last.  "And  really  the  man  him- 
self seems  to  have  suddenly  exploded.  But  he 
has  blown  himself  up  somehow  without  touching 
the  tower.  He's  burst  more  like  a  bubble  than 
a  bomb." 

"He  has  touched  more  valuable  things  than 
the  tower/'  said  Wilson,  gloomily. 
5i 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  Sir  Walter 
said,  seriously:  "Well,  Mr.  Wilson,  I  am  not 
a  detective,  and  these  unhappy  happenings  have 
left  you  in  charge  of  that  branch  of  the  business. 
We  all  lament  the  cause  of  this,  but  I  should  like 
to  say  that  I  myself  have  the  strongest  confidence 
in  your  capacity  for  carrying  on  the  work.  What 
do  you  think  we  should  do  next?" 

Wilson  seemed  to  rouse  himself  from  his  de- 
pression and  acknowledged  the  speaker's  words 
with  a  warmer  civility  than  he  had  hitherto 
shown  to  anybody.  He  called  in  a  few  of  the 
police  to  assist  in  routing  out  the  interior,  leaving 
the  rest  to  spread  themselves  in  a  search  party 
outside. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  uthe  first  thing  is  to  make 
quite  sure  about  the  inside  of  this  place,  as  it 
was  hardly  physically  possible  for  him  to  have 
got  outside.  I  suppose  poor  Nolan  would  have 
brought  in  his  banshee  and  said  it  was  super- 
naturally  possible.  But  I've  got  no  use  for  dis- 
embodied spirits  when  I'm  dealing  with  facts. 
And  the  facts  before  me  are  an  empty  tower 
with  a  ladder,  a  chair,  and  a  table." 

"The  spiritualists,"  said  Sir  Walter,  with  a 
smile,  "would  say  that  spirits  could  find  a  great 
deal  of  use  for  a  table." 

"I  dare  say  they  could  if  the  spirits  were  on 
the  table — in  a  bottle,"  replied  Wilson,  with  a 
curl  of  his  pale  lip.     "The  people  round  here, 

52 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

when  they're  all  sodden  up  with  Irish  whisky, 
may  believe  in  such  things.  I  think  they  want 
a  little  education  in  this  country." 

Home  Fisher's  heavy  eyelids  fluttered  in  a 
faint  attempt  to  rise,  as  if  he  were  tempted  to  a 
lazy  protest  against  the  contemptuous  tone  of 
the  investigator. 

"The  Irish  believe  far  too  much  in  spirits  to 
believe  in  spiritualism,"  he  murmured.  "They 
know  too  much  about  'em.  If  you  want  a  simple 
and  childlike  faith  in  any  spirit  that  comes  along 
you  can  get  it  in  your  favorite  London." 

"I  don't  want  to  get  it  anywhere,"  said  Wil- 
son, shortly.  "I  say  I'm  dealing  with  much 
simpler  things  than  your  simple  faith,  with  a 
table  and  a  chair  and  a  ladder.  Now  what  I 
want  to  say  about  them  at  the  start  is  this.  They 
are  all  three  made  roughly  enough  of  plain  wood. 
But  the  table  and  the  chair  are  fairly  new  and 
comparatively  clean.  The  ladder  is  covered  with 
dust  and  there  is  a  cobweb  under  the  top  rung 
of  it.  That  means  that  he  borrowed  the  first 
two  quite  recently  from  some  cottage,  as  we 
supposed,  but  the  ladder  has  been  a  long  time 
in  this  rotten  old  dustbin.  Probably  it  was 
part  of  the  original  furniture,  an  heirloom  in 
this  magnificent  palace  of  the  Irish  kings." 

Again  Fisher  looked  at  him  under  his  eyelids, 
but  seemed  too  sleepy  to  speak,  and  Wilson  went 
on  with  his  argument. 

53 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"Now  it's  quite  clear  that  something  very  odd 
has  just  happened  in  this  place.  The  chances 
are  ten  to  one,  it  seems  to  me,  that  it  had  some- 
thing specially  to  do  with  this  place.  Probably 
he  came  here  because  he  could  do  it  only  here ; 
it  doesn't  seem  very  inviting  otherwise.  But 
the  man  knew  it  of  old;  they  say  it  belonged  to 
his  family,  so  that  altogether,  I  think,  every- 
thing points  to  something  in  the  construction  of 
the  tower  itself." 

"Your  reasoning  seems  to  me  excellent,"  said 
Sir  Walter,  who  was  listening  attentively.  "But 
what  could  it  be?" 

"You  see  now  what  I  mean  about  the  ladder," 
went  on  the  detective;  "it's  the  only  old  piece 
of  furniture  here  and  the  first  thing  that  caught 
that  cockney  eye  of  mine.  But  there  is  some- 
thing else.  That  loft  up  there  is  a  sort  of 
lumber  room  without  any  lumber.  So  far  as  I 
can  see,  it's  as  empty  as  everything  else ;  and,  as 
things  are,  I  don't  see  the  use  of  the  ladder  lead- 
ing to  it.  It  seems  to  me,  as  I  can't  find  anything 
unusual  down  here,  that  it  might  pay  us  to  look 
up  there." 

He  got  briskly  off  the  table  on  which  he  was 
sitting  (for  the  only  chair  was  allotted  to  Sir 
Walter)  and  ran  rapidly  up  the  ladder  to  the 
platform  above.  He  was  soon  followed  by  the 
others,  Mr.  Fisher  going  last,  however,  with 
an  appearance  of  considerable  nonchalance. 
54 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

At  this  stage,  however,  they  were  destined  to 
disappointment;  Wilson  nosed  in  every  corner 
like  a  terrier  and  examined  the  roof  almost  in  the 
posture  of  a  fly,  but  half  an  hour  afterward  they 
had  to  confess  that  they  were  still  without  a  clew. 
Sir  Walter's  private  secretary  seemed  more  and 
more  threatened  with  inappropriate  slumber, 
and,  having  been  the  last  to  climb  up  the  ladder, 
seemed  now  to  lack  the  energy  even  to  climb 
down  again. 

"Come  along,  Fisher,"  called  out  Sir  Walter 
from  below,  when  the  others  had  regained  the 
floor.  "We  must  consider  whether  we'll  pull 
the  whole  place  to  pieces  to  see  what  it's  made 
of." 

"I'm  coming  in  a  minute,"  said  the  voice  from 
the  ledge  above  their  heads,  a  voice  somewhat 
suggestive  of  an  articulate  yawn. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for?"  asked  Sir  Wal- 
ter, impatiently.    "Can  you  see  anything  there?" 

"Well,  yes,  in  a  way,"  replied  the  voice, 
vaguely.     "In  fact,  I  see  it  quite  plain  now." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Wilson,  sharply,  from 
the  table  on  which  he  sat  kicking  his  heels  rest- 
lessly. 

"Well,  it's  a  man,"  said  Home  Fisher. 

Wilson  bounded  off  the  table  as  if  he  had  been 
kicked  off  it.  "What  do  you  mean?"  he  cried. 
"How  can  you  possibly  see  a  man?" 

"I  can  see  him  through  the  window,"  replied 
5  55 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

the  secretary,  mildly.  "I  see  him  coming  across 
the  moor.  He's  making  a  bee  line  across  the 
open  country  toward  this  tower.  He  evidently 
means  to  pay  us  a  visit.  And,  considering  who 
it  seems  to  be,  perhaps  it  would  be  more  polite 
if  we  were  all  at  the  door  to  receive  him."  And 
in  a  leisurely  manner  the  secretary  came  down 
the  ladder. 

"Who  it  seems  to  be!"  repeated  Sir  Walter 
in  astonishment. 

"Well,  I  think  it's  the  man  you  call  Prince 
Michael,"  observed  Mr.  Fisher,  airily.  "In 
fact,  I'm  sure  it  is.  I've  seen  the  police  portraits 
of  him." 

There  was  a  dead  silence,  and  Sir  Walter's 
usually  steady  brain  seemed  to  go  round  like  a 
windmill. 

"But,  hang  it  all !"  he  said  at  last,  "even  sup- 
posing his  own  explosion  could  have  thrown  him 
half  a  mile  away,  without  passing  through  any 
of  the  windows,  and  left  him  alive  enough  for  a 
country  walk — even  then,  why  the  devil  should 
he  walk  in  this  direction?  The  murderer  does 
not  generally  revisit  the  scene  of  his  crime  so 
rapidly  as  all  that." 

"He  doesn't  know  yet  that  it  is  the  scene  of 
his  crime,"  answered  Home  Fisher. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?  You  credit 
him  with  rather  singular  absence  of  mind." 

"Well,  the  truth  is,  it  isn't  the  scene  of  his 
56 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

crime,"  said  Fisher,  and  went  and  looked  out 
of  the  window. 

There  was  another  silence,  and  then  Sir  Walter 
said,  quietly:  "What  sort  of  notion  have  you 
really  got  in  your  head,  Fisher?  Have  you  de- 
veloped a  new  theory  about  how  this  fellow  es- 
caped out  of  the  ring  round  him?" 

"He  never  escaped  at  all,"  answered  the  man 
at  the  window,  without  turning  round.  "He 
never  escaped  out  of  the  ring  because  he  was 
never  inside  the  ring.  He  was  not  in  this  tower 
at  all,  at  least  not  when  we  were  surrounding  it." 

He  turned  and  leaned  back  against  the  window, 
but,  in  spite  of  his  usual  listless  manner,  they 
almost  fancied  that  the  face  in  shadow  was  a 
little  pale. 

"I  began  to  guess  something  of  the  sort  when 
we  were  some  way  from  the  tower,"  he  said. 
"Did  you  notice  that  sort  of  flash  or  flicker  the 
candle  gave  before  it  was  extinguished?  I  was 
almost  certain  it  was  only  the  last  leap  the  flame 
gives  when  a  candle  burns  itself  out.  And  then 
I  came  into  this  room  and  I  saw  that." 

He  pointed  at  the  table  and  Sir  Walter  caught 
his  breath  with  a  sort  of  curse  at  his  own  blind- 
ness. For  the  candle  in  the  candlestick  had 
obviously  burned  itself  away  to  nothing  and  left 
him,  mentally,  at  least,  very  completely  in  the 
dark. 

"Then  there  is  a  sort  of  mathematical  ques- 
57 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

tion,"  went  on  Fisher,  leaning  back  in  his  limp 
way  and  looking  up  at  the  bare  walls,  as  if 
tracing  imaginary  diagrams  there.  "It's  not  so 
easy  for  a  man  in  the  third  angle  to  face  the 
other  two  at  the  same  moment,  especially  if  they 
are  at  the  base  of  an  isosceles.  I  am  sorry  if  it 
sounds  like  a  lecture  on  geometry,  but " 

"I'm  afraid  we  have  no  time  for  it,"  said  Wil- 
son, coldly.  "If  this  man  is  really  coming  back, 
I  must  give  my  orders  at  once." 

"I  think  I'll  go  on  with  it,  though,"  observed 
Fisher,  staring  at  the  roof  with  insolent  serenity. 

"I  must  ask  you,  Mr.  Fisher,  to  let  me  con- 
duct my  inquiry  on  my  own  lines,"  said  Wilson, 
firmly.     "I  am  the  officer  in  charge  now." 

"Yes,"  remarked  Home  Fisher,  softly,  but 
with  an  accent  that  somehow  chilled  the  hearer. 
"Yes.    But  why?" 

Sir  Walter  was  staring,  for  he  had  never  seen 
his  rather  lackadaisical  young  friend  look  like 
that  before.  Fisher  was  looking  at  Wilson  with 
lifted  lids,  and  the  eyes  under  them  seemed  to 
have  shed  or  shifted  a  film,  as  do  the  eyes  of  an 
eagle. 

"Why  are  you  the  officer  in  charge  now?"  he 
asked.  "Why  can  you  conduct  the  inquiry  on 
your  own  lines  now?  How  did  it  come  about, 
I  wonder,  that  the  elder  officers  are  not  here  to 
interfere  with  anything  you  do?" 

Nobody  spoke,  and  nobody  can  say  how  soon 
58 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

anyone  would  have  collected  his  wits  to  speak 
when  a  noise  came  from  without.  It  was  the 
heavy  and  hollow  sound  of  a  blow  upon  the  door 
of  the  tower,  and  to  their  shaken  spirits  it 
sounded  strangely  like  the  hammer  of  doom. 

The  wooden  door  of  the  tower  moved  on  its 
rusty  hinges  under  the  hand  that  struck  it  and 
Prince  Michael  came  into  the  room.  Nobody 
had  the  smallest  doubt  about  his  identity.  His 
light  clothes,  though  frayed  with  his  adventures, 
were  of  fine  and  almost  foppish  cut,  and  he  wore 
a  pointed  beard,  or  imperial,  perhaps  as  a  further 
reminiscence  of  Louis  Napoleon;  but  he  was  a 
much  taller  and  more  graceful  man  thattiis  proto- 
type. Before  anyone  could  speak  he  had  si- 
lenced everyone  for  an  instant  with  a  slight  but 
splendid  gesture  of  hospitality. 

uGentlemen,"  he  said,  "this  is  a  poor  place 
now,  but  you  are  heartily  welcome." 

Wilson  was  the  first  to  recover,  and  he  took  a 
stride  toward  the  newcomer. 

"Michael  O'Neill,  I  arrest  you  in  the  king's 
name  for  the  murder  of  Francis  Morton  and 
James  Nolan.    It  is  my  duty  to  warn  you " 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Wilson,"  cried  Fisher,  sud- 
denly.    "You  shall  not  commit  a  third  murder." 

Sir  Walter  Carey  rose  from  his  chair,  which 
fell  over  with  a  crash  behind  him.  "What  does 
all  this  mean?"  he  called  out  in  an  authoritative 
manner. 

59 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"It  means,"  said  Fisher,  "that  this  man, 
Hooker  Wilson,  as  soon  as  he  had  put  his  head 
in  at  that  window,  killed  his  two  comrades  who 
had  put  their  heads  in  at  the  other  windows,  by 
firing  across  the  empty  room.  That  is  what  it 
means.  And  if  you  want  to  know,  count  how 
many  times  he  is  supposed  to  have  fired  and 
then  count  the  charges  left  in  his  revolver." 

Wilson,  who  was  still  sitting  on  the  table, 
abruptly  put  a  hand  out  for  the  weapon  that  lay 
beside  him.  But  the  next  movement  was  the 
most  unexpected  of  all,  for  the  prince  standing 
in  the  doorway  passed  suddenly  from  the  dig- 
nity of  a  statue  to  the  swiftness  of  an  acrobat 
and  rent  the  revolver  out  of  the  detective's  hand. 

"You  dog!"  he  cried.  "So  you  are  the  type 
of  English  truth,  as  I  am  of  Irish  tragedy — 
you  who  come  to  kill  me,  wading  through  the 
blood  of  your  brethren.  If  they  had  fallen  in 
a  feud  on  the  hillside,  it  would  be  called  murder, 
and  yet  your  sin  might  be  forgiven  you.  But  I, 
who  am  innocent,  I  was  to  be  slain  with  cere- 
mony. There  would  be  long  speeches  and  patient 
judges  listening  to  my  vain  plea  of  innocence, 
noting  down  my  despair  and  disregarding  it.  Yes, 
that  is  what  I  call  assassination.  But  killing  may 
be  no  murder;  there  is  one  shot  left  in  this  little 
gun,  and  I  know  where  it  should  go." 

Wilson  turned  quickly  on  the  table,  and  even 
as  he  turned  he  twisted  in  agony,  for  Michael 

60 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

shot  him  through  the  body  where  he  sat,  so  that 
he  tumbled  off  the  table  like  lumber. 

The  police  rushed  to  lift  him;  Sir  Walter  stood 
speechless;  and  then,  with  a  strange  and  weary 
gesture,  Home  Fisher  spoke. 

"You  are  indeed  a  type  of  the  Irish  tragedy," 
he  said.  "You  were  entirely  in  the  right,  and 
you  have  put  yourself  in  the  wrong." 

The  prince's  face  was  like  marble  for  a  space ; 
then  there  dawned  in  his  eyes  a  light  not  unlike 
that  of  despair.  He  laughed  suddenly  and  flung 
the  smoking  pistol  on  the  ground. 

"I  am  indeed  in  the  wrong,"  he  said.  "I  have 
committed  a  crime  that  may  justly  bring  a  curse 
on  me  ar.d  my  children." 

Home  Fisher  did  not  seem  entirely  satisfied 
with  this  very  sudden  repentance ;  he  kept  his  eyes 
on  the  man  and  only  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "What 
crime  do  you  mean?" 

"I  have  helped  English  justice,"  replied  Prince 
Michael.  UI  have  avenged  your  king's  officers; 
I  have  done  the  work  of  his  hangman.  For  that 
truly  I  deserve  to  be  hanged." 

And  he  turned  to  the  police  with  a  gesture 
that  did  not  so  much  surrender  to  them,  but 
rather  command  them  to  arrest  him. 

This  was  the  story  that  Home  Fisher  told  to 
Harold  March,  the  journalist,  many  years  after, 
in  a  little,  but  luxurious,  restaurant  near  Picca- 
61 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

dilly.  He  had  invited  March  to  dinner  some 
time  after  the  affair  he  called  "The  Face  in  the 
Target,"  and  the  conversation  had  naturally 
turned  on  that  mystery  and  afterward  on  earlier 
memories  of  Fisher's  life  and  the  wav  in  which 
he  was  led  to  study  such  problems  as  those  of 
Prince  Michael.  Home  Fisher  was  fifteen  years 
older;  his  thin  hair  had  faded  to  frontal  bald- 
ness, and  his  long,  thin  hands  dropped  less  with 
affectation  and  more  with  fatigue.  And  he  told 
the  story  of  the  Irish  adventure  of  his  youth, 
because  it  recorded  the  first  occasion  on  which 
he  had  ever  come  in  contact  with  crime,  or  dis- 
covered how  darkly  and  how  terribly  crime  can 
be  entangled  with  law. 

"Hooker  Wilson  was  the  first  criminal  I  ever 
knew,  and  he  was  a  policeman,"  explained 
Fisher,  twirling  his  wine  glass.  uAnd  all  my 
life  has  been  a  mixed-up  business  of  the  sort. 
He  was  a  man  of  very  real  talent,  and  perhaps 
genius,  and  well  worth  studying,  both  as  a  de- 
tective and  a  criminal.  His  white  face  and  red 
hair  were  typical  of  him,  for  he  was  one  of  those 
who  are  cold  and  yet  on  fire  for  fame;  and  he 
could  control  anger,  but  not  ambition.  He  swal- 
lowed the  snubs  of  his  superiors  in  that  first 
quarrel,  though  he  boiled  with  resentment;  but 
when  he  suddenly  saw  the  two  heads  dark  against 
the  dawn  and  framed  in  the  two  windows,  he 
could  not  miss  the  chance,  not  only  of  revenge, 
62 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

but  of  the  removal  of  the  two  obstacles  to  his 
promotion.  He  was  a  dead  shot  and  counted 
on  silencing  both,  though  proof  against  him 
would  have  been  hard  in  any  case.  But,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  had  a  narrow  escape,  in  the 
case  of  Nolan,  who  lived  just  long  enough  to  say, 
Wilson'  and  point.  We  thought  he  was  sum- 
moning help  for  his  comrade,  but  he  was  really 
denouncing  his  murderer.  After  that  it  was 
easy  to  throw  down  the  ladder  above  him  (for 
a  man  up  a  ladder  cannot  see  clearly  what  is 
below  and  behind)  and  to  throw  himself  on  the 
ground  as  another  victim  of  the  catastrophe. 

"But  there  was  mixed  up  with  his  murderous 
ambition  a  real  belief,  not  only  in  his  own  talents, 
but  in  his  own  theories.  He  did  believe  in  what 
he  called  a  fresh  eye,  and  he  did  want  scope  for 
fresh  methods.  There  was  something  in  his 
view,  but  it  failed  where  such  things  commonly 
fail,  because  the  fresh  eye  cannot  see  the  unseen. 
It  is  true  about  the  ladder  and  the  scarecrow, 
but  not  about  the  life  and  the  soul;  and  he  made 
a  bad  mistake  about  what  a  man  like  Michael 
would  do  when  he  heard  a  woman  scream.  All 
Michael's  very  vanity  and  vainglory  made  him 
rush  out  at  once;  he  would  have  walked  into 
Dublin  Castle  for  a  lady's  glove.  Call  it  his  pose 
or  what  you  will,  but  he  would  have  done  it. 
What  happened  when  he  met  her  is  another  story, 
and  one  we  may  never  know,  but  from  tales  I've 
63 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

heard  since,  they  must  have  been  reconciled.  Wil- 
son was  wrong  there;  but  there  was  something, 
for  all  that,  in  his  notion  that  the  newcomer 
sees  most,  and  that  the  man  on  the  spot  may 
know  too  much  to  know  anything.  He  was  right 
about  some  things.     He  was  right  about  me." 

"About  you?"  asked  Harold  March  in  some 
wonder. 

"I  am  the  man  who  knows  too  much  to  know 
anything,  or,  at  any  rate,  to  do  anything,"  said 
Home  Fisher.  "I  don't  mean  especially  about 
Ireland.  I  mean  about  England.  I  mean  about 
the  whole  way  we  are  governed,  and  perhaps 
the  only  way  we  can  be  governed.  You  asked 
me  just  now  what  became  of  the  survivors  of 
that  tragedy.  Well,  Wilson  recovered  and  we 
managed  to  persuade  him  to  retire.  But  we  had 
to  pension  that  damnable  murderer  more  mag- 
nificently than  any  hero  who  ever  fought  for 
England.  I  managed  to  save  Michael  from  the 
worst,  but  we  had  to  send  that  perfectly  innocent 
man  to  penal  servitude  for  a  crime  we  know  he 
never  committed,  and  it  was  only  afterward  that 
we  could  connive  in  a  sneakish  way  at  his  escape. 
And  Sir  Walter  Carey  is  Prime  Minister  of  this 
country,  which  he  would  probably  never  have 
been  if  the  truth  had  been  told  of  such  a  hor- 
rible scandal  in  his  department.  It  might  have 
done  for  us  altogether  in  Ireland;  it  would  cer» 
tainly  have  done  for  him.  And  he  is  my  father's 
64 


The  Vanishing  Prince 

old  friend,  and  has  always  smothered  me  with 
kindness.  I  am  too  tangled  up  with  the  whole 
thing,  you  see,  and  I  was  certainly  never  born 
to  set  it  right.  You  look  distressed,  not  to  say 
shocked,  and  I'm  not  at  all  offended  at  it.  Let 
us  change  the  subject  by  all  means,  if  you  like. 
What  do  you  think  of  this  Burgundy?  It's 
rather  a  discovery  of  mine,  like  the  restaurant 
itself." 

And  he  proceeded  to  talk  learnedly  and  luxuri- 
antly on  all  the  wines  of  the  world;  on  which 
subject,  also,  some  moralists  would  consider  that 
he  knew  too  much. 


Ill 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE  SCHOOLBOY 

A  LARGE  map  of  London  would  be  needed 
**- ^  to  display  the  wild  and  zigzag  course  of 
one  day's  journey  undertaken  by  an  uncle  and 
his  nephew ;  or,  to  speak  more  truly,  of  a  nephew 
and  his  uncle.  For  the  nephew,  a  schoolboy  on 
a  holiday,  was  in  theory  the  god  in  the  car,  or  in 
the  cab,  tram,  tube,  and  so  on,  while  his  uncle 
was  at  most  a  priest  dancing  before  him  and 
offering  sacrifices.  To  put  it  more  soberly,  the 
schoolboy  had  something  of  the  stolid  air  of  a 
young  duke  doing  the  grand  tour,  while  his 
elderly  relative  was  reduced  to  the  position  of  a 
courier,  who  nevertheless  had  to  pay  for  every- 
thing like  a  patron.  The  schoolboy  was  officially 
known  as  Summers  Minor,  and  in  a  more  social 
manner  as  Stinks,  the  only  public  tribute  to  his 
career  as  an  amateur  photographer  and  elec- 
trician. The  uncle  was  the  Rev.  Thomas  Twy- 
ford,  a  lean  and  lively  old  gentleman  with  a  red, 
eager  face  and  white  hair.  He  was  in  the  ordi- 
nary way  a  country  clergyman,  but  he  was  one  of 
those  who  achieve  the  paradox  of  being  famous 
in  an  obscure  way,  because  they  are  famous  in 
66 


The  Soul  of  the  Schoolboy 

an  obscure  world.  In  a  small  circle  of  ecclesias- 
tical archaeologists,  who  were  the  only  people 
who  could  even  understand  one  another's  dis- 
coveries, he  occupied  a  recognized  and  respect- 
able place.  And  a  critic  might  have  found  even 
in  that  day's  journey  at  least  as  much  of  the 
uncle's  hobby  as  of  the  nephew's  holiday. 

His  original  purpose  had  been  wholly  pater- 
nal and  festive.  But,  like  many  other  intelligent 
people,  he  was  not  above  the  weakness  of  play- 
ing with  a  toy  to  amuse  himself,  on  the  theory 
that  it  would  amuse  a  child.  His  toys  were 
crowns  and  miters  and  croziers  and  swords  of 
state ;  and  he  had  lingered  over  them,  telling  him- 
self that  the  boy  ought  to  see  all  the  sights  of 
London.  And  at  the  end  of  the  day,  after  a 
tremendous  tea,  he  rather  gave  the  game  away 
by  winding  up  with  a  visit  in  which  hardly  any 
human  boy  could  be  conceived  as  taking  an 
interest — an  underground  chamber  supposed  to 
have  been  a  chapel,  recently  excavated  on  the 
north  bank  of  the  Thames,  and  containing  liter- 
ally nothing  whatever  but  one  old  silver  coin. 
But  the  coin,  to  those  who  knew,  was  more  soli- 
tary and  splendid  than  the  Koh-i-noor.  It  was 
Roman,  and  was  said  to  bear  the  head  of  St. 
Paul;  and  round  it  raged  the  most  vital  contro- 
versies about  the  ancient  British  Church.  Itcould 
hardly  be  denied,  however,  that  the  controver- 
sies left  Summers  Minor  comparatively  cold. 
67 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

Indeed,  the  things  that  interested  Summers 
Minor,  and  the  things  that  did  not  interest  him, 
had  mystified  and  amused  his  uncle  for  several 
hours.  He  exhibited  the  English  schoolboy's 
startling  ignorance  and  startling  knowledge — 
knowledge  of  some  special  classification  in  which 
he  can  generally  correct  and  confound  his  elders. 
He  considered  himself  entitled,  at  Hampton 
Court  on  a  holiday,  to  forget  the  very  names  of 
Cardinal  Wolsey  or  William  of  Orange;  but 
he  could  hardly  be  dragged  from  some  details 
about  the  arrangement  of  the  electric  bells  in 
the  neighboring  hotel.  He  was  solidly  dazed  by 
Westminster  Abbey,  which  is  not  so  unnatural 
since  that  church  became  the  lumber  room  of 
the  larger  and  less  successful  statuary  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  But  he  had  a  magic  and 
minute  knowledge  of  the  Westminster  omnibuses, 
and  indeed  of  the  whole  omnibus  system  of 
London,  the  colors  and  numbers  of  which  he 
knew  as  a  herald  knows  heraldry.  He  would 
cry  out  against  a  momentary  confusion  between 
a  light-green  Paddington  and  a  dark-green  Bays- 
water  vehicle,  as  his  uncle  would  at  the  identifi- 
cation of  a  Greek  ikon  and  a  Roman  image. 

"Do  you  collect  omnibuses  like  stamps?" 
asked  his  uncle.  "They  must  need  a  rather  large 
album.     Or  do  you  keep  them  in  your  locker?" 

"I  keep  them  in  my  head,"  replied  the  nephew, 
with  legitimate  firmness. 

68 


The  Soul  of  the  Schoolboy 

"It  does  you  credit,  I  admit,"  replied  the 
clergyman.  "I  suppose  it  were  vain  to  ask  for 
what  purpose  you  have  learned  that  out  of  a 
thousand  things.  There  hardly  seems  to  be  a 
career  in  it,  unless  you  could  be  permanently  on 
the  pavement  to  prevent  old  ladies  getting  into 
the  wrong  bus.  Well,  we  must  get  out  of  this 
one,  for  this  is  our  place.  I  want  to  show  you 
what  they  call  St.  Paul's  Penny." 

"Is  it  like  St.  Paul's  Cathedral?"  asked  the 
youth  with  resignation,  as  they  alighted. 

At  the  entrance  their  eyes  were  arrested  by  a 
singular  figure  evidently  hovering  there  with  a 
similar  anxiety  to  enter.  It  was  that  of  a  dark, 
thin  man  in  a  long  black  robe  rather  like  a  cas- 
sock; but  the  black  cap  on  his  head  was  of  too 
strange  a  shape  to  be  a  biretta.  It  suggested, 
rather,  some  archaic  headdress  of  Persia  or 
Babylon.  He  had  a  curious  black  beard  appear- 
ing only  at  the  corners  of  his  chin,  and  his  large 
eyes  were  oddly  set  in  his  face  like  the  flat  decora- 
tive eyes  painted  in  old  Egyptian  profiles.  Be- 
fore they  had  gathered  more  than  a  general 
impression  of  him,  he  had  dived  into  the  door- 
way that  was  their  own  destination. 

Nothing  could  be  seen  above  ground  of  the 
sunken  sanctuary  except  a  strong  wooden  hut, 
of  the  sort  recently  run  up  for  many  military 
and  official  purposes,  the  wooden  floor  of  which 
was  indeed  a  mere  platform  over  the  excavated 

69 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

cavity  below.  A  soldier  stood  as  a  sentry  out- 
side, and  a  superior  soldier,  an  Anglo-Indian 
officer  of  distinction,  sat  writing  at  the  desk  in- 
side. Indeed,  the  sightseers  soon  found  that  this 
particular  sight  was  surrounded  with  the  most 
extraordinary  precautions.  I  have  compared  the 
silver  coin  to  the  Koh-i-noor,  and  in  one  sense  it 
was  even  conventionally  comparable,  since  by  a 
historical  accident  it  was  at  one  time  almost 
counted  among  the  Crown  jewels,  or  at  least 
the  Crown  relics,  until  one  of  the  royal  princes 
publicly  restored  it  to  the  shrine  to  which  it  was 
supposed  to  belong.  Other  causes  combined  to 
concentrate  official  vigilance  upon  it;  there  had 
been  a  scare  about  spies  carrying  explosives  in 
small  objects,  and  one  of  those  experimental 
orders  which  pass  like  waves  over  bureaucracy 
had  decreed  first  that  all  visitors  should  change 
their  clothes  for  a  sort  of  official  sackcloth,  and 
then  (when  this  method  caused  some  murmurs) 
that  they  should  at  least  turn  out  their  pockets. 
Colonel  Morris,  the  officer  in  charge,  was  a 
short,  active  man  with  a  grim  and  leathery  face, 
but  a  lively  and  humorous  eye — a  contradiction 
borne  out  by  his  conduct,  for  he  at  once  derided 
the  safeguards  and  yet  insisted  on  them. 

"I  don't  care  a  button  myself  for  Paul's  Penny, 
or  such  things,"  he  admitted  in  answer  to  some 
antiquarian  openings  from  the  clergyman  whp 
was  slightly  acquainted  with  him,  "but  I  wear 

70 


The  Soul  of  the  Schoolboy 

the  King's  coat,  you  know,  and  it's  a  serious 
thing  when  the  King's  uncle  leaves  a  thing  here 
with  his  own  hands  under  my  charge.  But  as 
for  saints  and  relics  and  things,  I  fear  I'm  a  bit 
of  a  Voltairian;  what  you  would  call  a  skeptic." 

"I'm  not  sure  it's  even  skeptical  to  believe  in 
the  royal  family  and  not  in  the  'Holy'  Family," 
replied  Mr.  Twyford.  "But,  of  course,  I  can 
easily  empty  my  pockets,  to  show  I  don't  carry 
a  bomb." 

The  little  heap  of  the  parson's  possessions 
which  he  left  on  the  table  consisted  chiefly  of 
papers,  over  and  above  a  pipe  and  a  tobacco 
pouch  and  some  Roman  and  Saxon  coins.  The 
rest  were  catalogues  of  old  books,  and  pam- 
phlets, like  one  entitled  "The  Use  of  Sarum," 
one  glance  at  which  was  sufficient  both  for  the 
colonel  and  the  schoolboy.  They  could  not  see 
the  use  of  Sarum  at  all.  The  contents  of  the 
boy's  pockets  naturally  made  a  larger  heap,  and 
included  marbles,  a  ball  of  string,  an  electric 
torch,  a  magnet,  a  small  catapult,  and,  of  course, 
a  large  pocketknife,  almost  to  be  described  as 
a  small  tool  box,  a  complex  apparatus  on  which 
he  seemed  disposed  to  linger,  pointing  out  that 
it  included  a  pair  of  nippers,  a  tool  for  punch- 
ing holes  in  wood,  and,  above  all,  an  instrument 
for  taking  stones  out  of  a  horse's  hoof.  The 
comparative  absence  of  any  horse  he  appeared 
to  regard  as  irrelevant,  as  if  it  were  a  mere  ap- 

«  1i 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

pendage  easily  supplied.  But  when  the  turn 
came  of  the  gentleman  in  the  black  gown,  he  did 
not  turn  out  his  pockets,  but  merely  spread  out 
his  hands. 

"I  have  no  possessions,"  he  said. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  ask  you  to  empty  your 
pockets  and  make  sure,"  observed  the  colonel, 
gruffly. 

"I  have  no  pockets,"  said  the  stranger. 

Mr.  Twyford  was  looking  at  the  long  black 
gown  with  a  learned  eye. 

"Are  you  a  monk?"  he  asked,  in  a  puzzled 
fashion. 

"I  am  a  magus,"  replied  the  stranger.  "You 
have  heard  of  the  magi,  perhaps?  I  am  a 
magician." 

"Oh,  I  say!"  exclaimed  Summers  Minor,  with 
prominent  eyes. 

"But  I  was  once  a  monk,"  went  on  the  other. 
"I  am  what  you  would  call  an  escaped  monk. 
Yes,  I  have  escaped  into  eternity.  But  the  monks 
held  one  truth  at  least,  that  the  highest  life 
should  be  without  possessions.  I  have  no  pocket 
money  and  no  pockets,  and  all  the  stars  are  my 
trinkets." 

"They  are  out  of  reach,  anyhow,"  observed 
Colonel  Morris,  in  a  tone  which  suggested  that 
it  was  well  for  them.  "I've  known  a  good  many 
magicians  myself  in  India — mango  plant  and  all. 
But  the  Indian  ones  are  all  frauds,  I'll  swear. 

72 


The  Soul  of  the  Schoolboy 

In  fact,  I  had  a  good  deal  of  fun  showing  them 
up.  More  fun  than  I  have  over  this  dreary  job, 
anyhow.  But  here  comes  Mr.  Symon,  who  will 
show  you  over  the  old  cellar  downstairs." 

Mr.  Symon,  the  official  guardian  and  guide, 
was  a  young  man,  prematurely  gray,  with  a 
grave  mouth  which  contrasted  curiously  with  a 
very  small,  dark  mustache  with  waxed  points, 
that  seemed  somehow,  separate  from  it,  as  if  a 
black  fly  had  settled  on  his  face.  He  spoke  with 
the  accent  of  Oxford  and  the  permanent  official, 
but  in  as  dead  a  fashion  as  the  most  indifferent 
hired  guide.  They  descended  a  dark  stone  stair- 
case, at  the  floor  of  which  Symon  pressed  a  but- 
ton and  a  door  opened  on  a  dark  room,  or,  rather, 
a  room  which  had  an  instant  before  been  dark. 
For  almost  as  the  heavy  iron  door  swung  open 
an  almost  blinding  blaze  of  electric  lights  filled 
the  whole  interior.  The  fitful  enthusiasm  of 
Stinks  at  once  caught  fire,  and  he  eagerly  asked 
if  the  lights  and  the  door  worked  together. 

"Yes,  it's  all  one  system,"  replied  Symon.  "It 
was  all  fitted  up  for  the  day  His  Royal  Highness 
deposited  the  thing  here.  You  see,  it's  locked 
up  behind  a  glass  case  exactly  as  he  left  it." 

A  glance  showed  that  the  arrangements  for 
guarding  the  treasure  were  indeed  as  strong  as 
they  were  simple.  A  single  pane  of  glass  cut  off 
one  corner  of  the  room,  in  an  iron  framework 
let  into  the  rock  walls  and  the  wooden  roof 

73 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

above;  there  was  now  no  possibility  of  reopen- 
ing the  case  without  elaborate  labor,  except  by 
breaking  the  glass,  which  would  probably  arouse 
the  night  watchman  who  was  always  within  a 
few  feet  of  it,  even  if  he  had  fallen  asleep.  A 
close  examination  would  have  showed  many  more 
ingenious  safeguards;  but  the  eye  of  the  Rev. 
Thomas  Twyford,  at  least,  was  already  riveted 
on  what  interested  him  much  more — the  dull 
silver  disk  which  shone  in  the  white  light  against 
a  plain  background  of  black  velvet. 

"St.  Paul's  Penny,  said  to  commemorate  the 
visit  of  St.  Paul  to  Britain,  was  probably  pre- 
served in  this  chapel  until  the  eighth  century," 
Symon  was  saying  in  his  clear  but  colorless  voice. 
"In  the  ninth  century  it  is  supposed  to  have  been 
carried  away  by  the  barbarians,  and  it  reappears, 
after  the  conversion  of  the  northern  Goths,  in 
the  possession  of  the  royal  family  of  Gothland. 
His  Royal  Highness,  the  Duke  of  Gothland,  re- 
tained it  always  in  his  own  private  custody,  and 
when  he  decided  to  exhibit  it  to  the  public,  placed 
it  here  with  his  own  hand.  It  was  immediately 
sealed  up  in  such  a  manner " 

Unluckily  at  this  point  Summers  Minor,  whose 
attention  had  somewhat  strayed  from  the  reli- 
gious wars  of  the  ninth  century,  caught  sight  of  a 
short  length  of  wire  appearing  in  a  broken  patch 
in  the  wall.  He  precipitated  himself  at  it,  call- 
ing out,  "I  say,  does  that  connect?" 

74 


The  Soul  of  the  Schoolboy 

It  was  evident  that  it  did  connect,  for  no 
sooner  had  the  boy  given  it  a  twitch  than  the 
whole  room  went  black,  as  if  they  had  all  been 
struck  blind,  and  an  instant  afterward  they  heard 
the  dull  crash  of  the  closing  door. 

"Well,  you've  done  it  now,"  said  Symon,  in 
his  tranquil  fashion.  Then  after  a  pause  he 
added,  "I  suppose  they'll  miss  us  sooner  or  later, 
and  no  doubt  they  can  get  it  open;  but  it  may 
take  some  little  time." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  the  unconquer- 
able Stinks  observed : 

"Rotten  that  I  had  to  leave  my  electric  torch." 

"I  think,"  said  his  uncle,  with  restraint,  "that 
we  are  sufficiently  convinced  of  your  interest  in 
electricity." 

Then  after  a  pause  he  remarked,  more  ami- 
ably: "I  suppose  if  I  regretted  any  of  my  own 
impedimenta,  it  would  be  the  pipe.  Though,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  it's  not  much  fun  smoking  in 
the  dark.  Everything  seems  different  in  the 
dark." 

"Everything  is  different  in  the  dark,"  said  a 
third  voice,  that  of  the  man  who  called  himself 
a  magician.  It  was  a  very  musical  voice,  and 
rather  in  contrast  with  his  sinister  and  swarthy 
visage,  which  was  now  invisible.  "Perhaps  you 
don't  know  how  terrible  a  truth  that  is.  All  you 
see  are  pictures  made  by  the  sun,  faces  and  fur- 
niture and  flowers  and  trees.    The  things  them- 

75 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

selves  may  be  quite  strange  to  you.  Something 
else  may  be  standing  now  where  you  saw  a 
table  or  a  chair.  The  face  of  your  friend  may 
be  quite  different  in  the  dark." 

A  short,  indescribable  noise  broke  the  stillness. 
Twyford  started  for  a  second,  and  then  said, 
sharply : 

"Really,  I  don't  think  it's  a  suitable  occasion 
for  trying  to  frighten  a  child." 

"Who's  a  child?"  cried  the  indignant  Sum- 
mers, with  a  voice  that  had  a  crow,  but  also 
something  of  a  crack  in  it.  "And  who's  a  funk, 
either?    Not  me." 

"I  will  be  silent,  then,"  said  the  other  voice 
out  of  the  darkness.  "But  silence  also  makes 
and  unmakes." 

The  required  silence  remained  unbroken  for 
a  long  time  until  at  last  the  clergyman  said  to 
Symon  in  a  low  voice : 

"I  suppose  it's  all  right  about  air?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  the  other  aloud;  "there's 
a  fireplace  and  a  chimney  in  the  office  just  by  the 
door." 

A  bound  and  the  noise  of  a  falling  chair  told 
them  that  the  irrepressible  rising  generation  had 
once  more  thrown  itself  across  the  room.  They 
heard  the  ejaculation:    "A  chimney!    Why,  I'll 

be "  and  the  rest  was  lost  in  muffled,  but 

exultant,  cries. 

The  uncle  called  repeatedly  and  vainly,  groped 

76 


The  Soul  of  the  Schoolboy 

his  way  at  last  to  the  opening,  and,  peering  up 
it,  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  disk  of  daylight,  which 
seemed  to  suggest  that  the  fugitive  had  vanished 
in  safety.  Making  his  way  back  to  the  group 
by  the  glass  case,  he  fell  ever  the  fallen  chair 
and  took  a  moment  to  collect  himself  again.  He 
had  opened  his  mouth  to  speak  to  Symon,  when 
he  stopped,  and  suddenly  found  himself  blink- 
ing in  the  full  shock  of  the  white  light,  and  look- 
ing over  the  other  man's  shoulder,  he  saw  that 
the  door  was  standing  open. 

"So  they've  got  at  us  at  last,"  he  observed 
to  Symon. 

The  man  in  the  black  robe  was  leaning  against 
the  wall  some  yards  away,  with  a  smile  carved 
on  his  face. 

"Here  comes  Colonel  Morris,"  went  on  Twy- 
ford,  still  speaking  to  Symon.  "One  of  us  will 
have  to  tell  him  how  the  light  went  out.  Will 
you?" 

But  Symon  still  said  nothing.  He  was  stand- 
ing as  still  as  a  statue,  and  looking  steadily  at 
the  black  velvet  behind  the  glass  screen.  He  was 
looking  at  the  black  velvet  because  there  was 
nothing  else  to  look  at.  St.  Paul's  Penny  was 
gone. 

Colonel  Morris  entered  the  room  with  two 
new  visitors ;  presumably  two  new  sightseers  de- 
layed by  the  accident.  The  foremost  was  a  tall, 
fair,  rather  languid-looking  man  with  a  bald 
77 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

brow  and  a  high-bridged  nose;  his  companion 
was  a  younger  man  with  light,  curly  hair  and 
frank,  and  even  innocent,  eyes.  Symon  scarcely 
seemed  to  hear  the  newcomers;  it  seemed  almost 
as  if  he  had  not  realized  that  the  return  of  the 
light  revealed  his  brooding  attitude.  Then  he 
started  in  a  guilty  fashion,  and  when  he  saw  the 
elder  of  the  two  strangers,  his  pale  face  seemed 
to  turn  a  shade  paler. 

"Why  it's  Home  Fisher  I"  and  then  after  a 
pause  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "I'm  in  the  devil 
of  a  hole,  Fisher." 

"There  does  seem  a  bit  of  a  mystery  to  be 
cleared  up,"  observed  the  gentleman  so  ad- 
dressed. 

"It  will  never  be  cleared  up,"  said  the  pale 
Symon.  "If  anybody  could  clear  it  up,  you  could. 
But  nobody  could." 

"I  rather  think  I  could,"  said  another  voice 
from  outside  the  group,  and  they  turned  in  sur- 
prise to  realize  that  the  man  in  the  black  robe 
had  spoken  again. 

"You!"  said  the  colonel,  sharply.  "And  how 
do  you  propose  to  play  the  detective?11 

"I  do  not  propose  to  play  the  detective,"  an- 
swered the  other,  in  a  clear  voice  like  a  bell.  "I 
propose  to  play  the  magician.  One  of  the  ma- 
gicians you  show  up  in  India,  Colonel." 

No  one  spoke  for  a  moment,  and  then  Home 
Fisher  surprised  everybody  by  saying,   "Well, 

78 


The  Soul  of  the  Schoolboy 

let's  go  upstairs,  and  this  gentleman  can  have 
a  try." 

He  stopped  Symon,  who  had  an  automatic 
finger  on  the  button,  saying:  "No,  leave  all  the 
lights  on.     It's  a  sort  of  safeguard." 

"The  thing  can't  be  taken  away  now,"  said 
Symon,  bitterly. 

"It  can  be  put  back,"  replied  Fisher. 

Twyford  had  already  run  upstairs  for  news 
of  his  vanishing  nephew,  and  he  received  news 
of  him  in  a  way  that  at  once  puzzled  and  re- 
assured him.  On  the  floor  above  lay  one  of 
those  large  paper  darts  which  boys  throw  at 
each  other  when  the  schoolmaster  is  out  of  the 
room.  It  had  evidently  been  thrown  in  at  the 
window,  and  on  being  unfolded  displayed  a 
scrawl  of  bad  handwriting  which  ran:  "Dear 
Uncle;  I  am  all  right.  Meet  you  at  the  hotel 
later  on,"  and  then  the  signature. 

Insensibly  comforted  by  this,  the  clergyman 
found  his  thoughts  reverting  voluntarily  to  his 
favorite  relic,  which  came  a  good  second  in  his 
sympathies  to  his  favorite  nephew,  and  before 
he  knew  where  he  was  he  found  himself  encircled 
by  the  group  discussing  its  loss,  and  more  or  less 
carried  away  on  the  current  of  their  excitement. 
But  an  undercurrent  of  query  continued  to  run 
in  his  mind,  as  to  what  had  really  happened  to 
the  boy,  and  what  was  the  boy's  exact  definition 
of  being  all  right. 

79 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

Meanwhile  Home  Fisher  had  considerably 
puzzled  everybody  with  his  new  tone  and  atti- 
tude. He  had  talked  to  the  colonel  about  the 
military  and  mechanical  arrangements,  and  dis- 
played a  remarkable  knowledge  both  of  the  de- 
tails of  discipline  and  the  technicalities  of  elec- 
tricity. He  had  talked  to  the  clergyman,  and 
shown  an  equally  surprising  knowledge  of  the 
religious  and  historical  interests  involved  in  the 
relic.  He  had  talked  to  the  man  who  called  him- 
self a  magician,  and  not  only  surprised  but  scan- 
dalized the  company  by  an  equally  sympathetic 
familiarity  with  the  most  fantastic  forms  of  Ori- 
ental occultism  and  psychic  experiment.  And 
in  this  last  and  least  respectable  line  of  inquiry 
he  was  evidently  prepared  to  go  farthest;  he 
openly  encouraged  the  magician,  and  was  plainly 
prepared  to  follow  the  wildest  ways  of  investiga- 
tion in  which  that  magus  might  lead  him. 

"How  would  you  begin  now?"  he  inquired, 
with  an  anxious  politeness  that  reduced  the 
colonel  to  a  congestion  of  rage. 

"It  is  all  a  question  of  a  force;  of  establish- 
ing communications  for  a  force,"  replied  that 
adept,  affably,  ignoring  some  military  mutter- 
ings  about  the  police  force.  "It  is  what  you  in 
the  West  used  to  call  animal  magnetism,  but  it 
is  much  more  than  that.  I  had  better  not  say 
how  much  more.  As  to  setting  about  it,  the 
usual  method  is  to  throw  some  susceptible  per- 

80 


Trie  Soul  of  the  Schoolboy 

son  Into  a  trance,  which  serves  as  a  sort  of  bridge 
or  cord  of  communication,  by  which  the  force 
beyond  can  give  him,  as  it  were,  an  electric 
shock,  and  awaken  his  higher  senses.  It  opens 
the  sleeping  eye  of  the  mind." 

"I'm  suspectible,"  said  Fisher,  either  with  sim- 
plicity or  with  a  baffling  irony.  "Why  not  open 
my  mind's  eye  for  me?  My  friend  Harold 
March  here  will  tell  you  I  sometimes  see  things, 
even  in  the  dark." 

"Nobody  sees  anything  except  in  the  dark," 
said  the  magician. 

Heavy  clouds  of  sunset  were  closing  round  the 
wooden  hut,  enormous  clouds,  of  which  only  the 
corners*  could  be  seen  in  the  little  window,  like 
purple  horns  and  tails,  almost  as  if  some  huge 
monsters  were  prowling  round  the  place.  But 
the  purple  was  already  deepening  to  dark  gray; 
it  would  soon  be  night. 

"Do  not  light  the  lamp,"  said  the  magus  with 
quiet  authority,  arresting  a  movement  in  that 
direction.  "I  told  you  before  that  things  happen 
only  in  the  dark." 

How  such  a  topsy-turvy  scene  ever  came  to  be 
tolerated  in  the  colonel's  office,  of  all  places,  was 
afterward  a  puzzle  in  the  memory  of  many,  in- 
cluding the  colonel.  They  recalled  it  like  a  sort 
of  nightmare,  like  something  they  could  not  con- 
trol. Perhaps  there  was  really  a  magnetism 
about  the  mesmerist;  perhaps  there  was  even 
81 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

more  magnetism  about  the  man  mesmerized. 
Anyhow,  the  man  was  being  mesmerized,  for 
Home  Fisher  had  collapsed  into  a  chair  with 
his  long  limbs  loose  and  sprawling  and  his  eyes 
staring  at  vacancy*  and  the  other  man  was  mes- 
merizing him,  making  sweeping  movements  with 
his  darkly  draped  arms  as  if  with  black  wings. 
The  colonel  had  passed  the  point  of  explosion, 
and  he  dimly  realized  that  eccentric  aristocrats 
are  allowed  their  fling.  He  comforted  himself 
with  the  knowledge  that  he  had  already  sent  for 
the  police,  who  would  break  up  any  such  mas- 
querade, and  with  lighting  a  cigar,  the  red  end 
of  which,  in  the  gathering  darkness,  glowed  with 
protest. 

"Yes,  I  see  pockets,"  the  man  in  the  trance 
was  saying.  "I  see  many  pockets,  but  they  are 
all  empty.  No;  I  see  one  pocket  that  is  not 
empty." 

There  was  a  faint  stir  in  the  stillness,  and  the 
magician  said,  "Can  you  see  what  is  in  the 
pocket?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  other;  "there  are  two 
bright  things.  I  think  they  are  two  bits  of  steel. 
One  of  the  pieces  of  steel  is  bent  or  crooked." 

"Have  they  been  used  in  the  removal  of  the 
relic  from  downstairs?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  another  pause  and  the  inquirer 
added,  "Do  you  see  anything  of  the  relic  itself?" 
82 


The  Soul  of  the  Schoolboy 

"I  see  something  shining  on  the  floor,  like  the 
shadow  or  the  ghost  of  it.  It  is  over  there  in 
the  corner  beyond  the  desk." 

There  was  a  movement  of  men  turning  and 
then  a  sudden  stillness,  as  of  their  stiffening,  for 
over  in  the  corner  on  the  wooden  floor  there  was 
really  a  round  spot  of  pale  light.  It  was  the 
only  spot  of  light  in  the  room.  The  cigar  had 
gone  out. 

"It  points  the  way,"  came  the  voice  of  the 
oracle.  "The  spirits  are  pointing  the  way  to 
penitence,  and  urging  the  thief  to  restitution.  I 
can  see  nothing  more."  His  voice  trailed  off  into 
a  silence  that  lasted  solidly  for  many  minutes, 
like  the  long  silence  below  when  the  theft  had 
been  committed.  Then  it  was  broken  by  the 
ring  of  metal  on  the  floor,  and  the  sound  of  some- 
thing spinning  and  falling  like  a  tossed  half- 
penny. 

"Light  the  lamp !"  cried  Fisher  in  a  loud  and 
even  jovial  voice,  leaping  to  his  feet  with  far  less 
languor  than  usual.  "I  must  be  going  now,  but 
I  should  like  to  see  it  before  I  go.  Why,  I  came 
on  purpose  to  see  it." 

The  lamp  was  lit,  and  he  did  see  it,  for  St. 
Paul's  Penny  was  lying  on  the  floor  at  his  feet. 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  explained  Fisher,  when  he 
was  entertaining  March  and  Twyford  at  lunch 
about  a  month  later,  "I  merely  wanted  to  play 
with  the  magician  at  his  own  game." 
83 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"I  thought  you  meant  to  catch  him  in  his  own 
trap,"  said  Twyf ord.  "I  can't  make  head  or  tail 
of  anything  yet,  but  to  my  mind  he  was  always 
the  suspect.  I  don't  think  he  was  necessarily  a 
thief  in  the  vulgar  sense.  The  police  always  seem 
to  think  that  silver  is  stolen  for  the  sake  of  silver, 
but  a  thing  like  that  might  well  be  stolen  out  of 
some  religious  mania.  A  runaway  monk  turned 
mystic  might  well  want  it  for  some  mystical 
purpose." 

"No,"  replied  Fisher,  "the  runaway  monk  is 
not  a  thief.  At  any  rate  he  is  not  the  thief.  And 
he's  not  altogether  a  liar,  either.  He  said  one 
true  thing  at  least  that  night." 

"And  what  was  that?"  inquired  March. 

"He  said  it  was  all  magnetism.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  it  was  done  by  means  of  a  magnet." 
Then,  seeing  they  still  looked  puzzled,  he  added, 
"It  was  that  toy  magnet  belonging  to  your 
nephew,  Mr.  Twyford." 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  objected  March. 
"If  it  was  done  with  the  schoolboy's  magnet,  I 
suppose  it  was  done  by  the  schoolboy." 

"Well,"  replied  Fisher,  reflectively,  "it  rather 
depends  which  schoolboy." 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?" 

"The  soul  of  a  schoolboy  is  a  curious  thing," 
Fisher  continued,  in  a  meditative  manner.  "It 
can  survive  a  great  many  things  besides  climb- 
ing out  of  a  chimney.  A  man  can  grow  gray  in 
84 


The  Soul  of  the  Schoolboy 

great  campaigns,  and  still  have  the  soul  of  a 
schoolboy.  A  man  can  return  with  a  great  repu- 
tation from  India  and  be  put  in  charge  of  a  great 
public  treasure,  and  still  have  the  soul  of  a 
schoolboy,  waiting  to  be  awakened  by  an  acci- 
dent. And  it  is  ten  times  more  so  when  to  the 
schoolboy  you  add  the  skeptic,  who  is  generally 
a  sort  of  stunted  schoolboy.  You  said  just  now 
that  things  might  be  done  by  religious  mania. 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  irreligious  mania?  I 
assure  you  it  exists  very  violently,  especially  in 
men  who  like  showing  up  magicians  in  India. 
But  here  the  skeptic  had  the  temptation  of  show- 
ing up  a  much  more  tremendous  sham  nearer 
home." 

A  light  came  into  Harold  March's  eyes  as  he 
suddenly  saw,  as  if  afar  off,  the  wider  implica- 
tion of  the  suggestion.  But  Twyford  was  still 
wrestling  with  one  problem  at  a  time. 

"Do  you  really  mean,"  he  said,  "that  Colonel 
Morris  took  the  relic?" 

"He  was  the  only  person  who  could  use  the 
magnet,"  replied  Fisher.  "In  fact,  your  oblig- 
ing nephew  left  him  a  number  of  things  he  could 
use.  He  had  a  ball  of  string,  and  an  instrument 
for  making  a  hole  in  the  wooden  floor — I  made 
a  little  play  with  that  hole  in  the  floor  in  my 
trance,  by  the  way;  with  the  lights  left  on  below, 
it  shone  like  a  new  shilling." 

Twyford  suddenly  bounded  on  his  chair.  "But 
85 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

in  that  case,"  he  cried,  in  a  new  and  altered  voice, 
"why  then  of  course —  You  said  a  piece  of 
steel " 

"I  said  there  were  two  pieces  of  steel,"  said 
Fisher.  "The  bent  piece  of  steel  was  the  boy's 
magnet.  The  other  was  the  relic  in  the  glass 
case." 

"But  that  is  silver,"  answered  the  archaeolo- 
gist, in  a  voice  now  almost  unrecognizable. 

"Oh,"  replied  Fisher,  soothingly,  "I  dare  say 
it  was  painted  with  silver  a  little." 

There  was  a  heavy  silence,  and  at  last  Harold 
March  said,  1{But  where  is  the  real  relic?" 

"Where  it  has  been  for  five  years,"  replied 
Home  Fisher,  "in  the  possession  of  a  mad  mil- 
lionaire named  Vandam,  in  Nebraska.  There 
was  a  playful  little  photograph  about  him  in  a 
society  paper  the  other  day,  mentioning  his  de- 
lusion, and  saying  he  was  always  being  taken  in 
about  relics." 

Harold  March  frowned  at  the  tablecloth; 
then,  after  an  interval,  he  said:  "I  think  I  under- 
stand your  notion  of  how  the  thing  was  actually 
done;  according  to  that,  Morris  just  made  a 
hole  and  fished  it  up  with  a  magnet  at  the  end 
of  a  string.  Such  a  monkey  trick  looks  like 
mere  madness,  but  I  suppose  he  was  mad,  partly 
with  the  boredom  of  watching  over  what  he  felt 
was  a  fraud,  though  he  couldn't  prove  it.  Then 
came  a  chance  to  prove  it,  to  himself  at  least, 

86 


The  Soul  of  the  Schoolboy 

and  he  had  what  he  called  'fun'  with  it.  Yes,  I 
think  I  see  a  lot  of  details  now.  But  it's  just  the 
whole  thing  that  knocks  me.  How  did  it  all 
come  to  be  like  that?" 

Fisher  was  looking  at  him  with  level  lids  and 
an  immovable  manner. 

"Every  precaution  was  taken,"  he  said.  "The 
Duke  carried  the  relic  on  his  own  person,  and 
locked  it  up  in  the  case  with  his  own  hands." 

March  was  silent;  but  Twyford  stammered. 
"I  don't  understand  you.  You  give  me  the, 
creeps.    Why  don't  you  speak  plainer?" 

"If  I  spoke  plainer  you  would  understand  me 
less,"  said  Home  Fisher. 

"All  the  same  I  should  try,"  6aid  March,  still 
without  lifting  his  head. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  replied  Fisher,  with  a  sigh; 
"the  plain  truth  is,  of  course,  that  it's  a  bad  busi- 
ness. Everybody  knows  it's  a  bad  business  who 
knows  anything  about  it.  But  it's  always  hap- 
pening, and  in  one  way  one  can  hardly  blame 
them.  They  get  stuck  on  to  a  foreign  princess 
that's  as  stiff  as  a  Dutch  doll,  and  they  have  their 
fling.    In  this  case  it  was  a  pretty  big  fling." 

The  face  of  the  Rev.  Thomas  Twyford  cer- 
tainly suggested  that  he  was  a  little  out  of  his 
depth  in  the  seas  of  truth,  but  as  the  other  went 
on  speaking  vaguely  the  old  gentleman's  features 
sharpened  and  set. 

"If  it  were  some  decent  morganatic  affair  I 

7  87 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

wouldn't  say;  but  he  must  have  been  a  fool  to 
throw  away  thousands  on  a  woman  like  that. 
At  the  end  it  was  sheer  blackmail;  but  it's  some- 
thing that  the  old  ass  didn't  get  it  out  of  the 
taxpayers.  He  could  only  get  it  out  of  the  Yank, 
and  there  you  are." 

The  Rev.  Thomas  Twyford  had  risen  to 
his  feet. 

"Well,  Fm  glad  my  nephew  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it,"  he  said.  "And  if  that's  what  the  world 
is  like,  I  hope  he  will  never  have  anything  to 
do  with  it." 

"I  hope  not,"  answered  Home  Fisher.  "No 
one  knows  so  well  as  I  do  that  one  can  have  far 
too  much  to  do  with  it." 

For  Summers  Minor  had  indeed  nothing  to  do 
with  it;  and  it  is  part  of  his  higher  significance 
that  he  has  really  nothing  to  do  with  the  story, 
or  with  any  such  stories.  The  boy  went  like  a 
bullet  through  the  tangle  of  this  tale  of  crooked 
politics  and  crazy  mockery  and  came  out  on  the 
other  side,  pursuing  his  own  unspoiled  purposes. 
From  the  top  of  the  chimney  he  climbed  he  had 
caught  sight  of  a  new  omnibus,  whose  color  and 
name  he  had  never  known,  as  a  naturalist  might 
see  a  new  bird  or  a  botanist  a  new  flower.  And 
he  had  been  sufficiently  enraptured  in  rushing 
after  it,  and  riding  away  upon  that  fairy  ship. 


88 


IV 

THE  BOTTOMLESS  WELL 

TN  an  oasis,  or  green  island,  in  the  red  and 
-*  yellow  seas  of  sand  that  stretch  beyond 
Europe  toward  the  sunrise,  there  can  be  found 
a  rather  fantastic  contrast,  which  is  none  the  less 
typical  of  such  a  place,  since  international  treaties 
have  made  it  an  outpost  of  the  British  occupa- 
tion. The  site  is  famous  among  archaeologists 
for  something  that  is  hardly  a  monument,  but 
merely  a  hole  in  the  ground.  But  it  is  a  round 
shaft,  like  that  of  a  well,  and  probably  a  part  of 
some  great  irrigation  works  of  remote  and  dis- 
puted date,  perhaps  more  ancient  than  anything 
in  that  ancient  land.  There  is  a  green  fringe  of 
palm  and  prickly  pear  round  the  black  mouth  of 
the  well;  but  nothing  of  the  upper  masonry  re- 
mains except  two  bulky  and  battered  stones  stand- 
ing like  the  pillars  of  a  gateway  of  nowhere,  in 
which  some  of  the  more  transcendental  archae- 
ologists, in  certain  moods  at  moonrise  or  sunset, 
think  they  can  trace  the  faint  lines  of  figures  or 
features  of  more  than  Babylonian  monstrosity; 
while  the  more  rationalistic  archaeologists,  in  the 
more  rational  hours  of  daylight,  see  nothing  but 

89 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

two  shapeless  rocks.  It  may  have  been  noticed, 
however,  that  all  Englishmen  are  not  archaeolo- 
gists. Many  of  those  assembled  in  such  a  place 
for  official  and  military  purposes  have  hobbies 
other  than  archaeology.  And  it  is  a  solemn  fact 
that  the  English  in  this  Eastern  exile  have  con- 
trived to  make  a  small  golf  links  out  of  the  green 
scrub  and  sand;  with  a  comfortable  clubhouse 
at  one  end  of  it  and  this  primeval  monument  at 
the  other.  They  did  not  actually  use  this  archaic 
abyss  as  a  bunker,  because  it  was  by  tradition 
unfathomable,  and  even  for  practical  purposes 
unfathomed.  Any  sporting  projectile  sent  into 
it  might  be  counted  most  literally  as  a  lost  ball. 
But  they  often  sauntered  round  it  in  their  inter- 
ludes of  talking  and  smoking  cigarettes,  and  one 
of  them  had  just  come  down  from  the  clubhouse 
to  find  another  gazing  somewhat  moodily  into 
the  well. 

Both  the  Englishmen  wore  light  clothes  and 
white  pith  helmets  and  puggrees,  but  there,  for 
the  most  part,  their  resemblance  ended.  And 
they  both  almost  simultaneously  said  the  same 
word,  but  they  said  it  on  two  totally  different 
notes  of  the  voice. 

"Have  you  heard  the  news?"  asked  the  man 
from  the  club.     "Splendid." 

"Splendid,"  replied  the  man  by  the  well.    But 
the  first  man  pronounced  the  word  as  a  young 
man  might  say  it  about  a  woman,  and  the  second 
90 


The  Bottomless  Well 

as  an  old  man  might  say  it  about  the  weather, 
not  without  sincerity,  but  certainly  without 
fervor. 

And  in  this  the  tone  of  the  two  men  was  suffi* 
ciently  typical  of  them.  The  first,  who  was  a 
certain  Captain  Boyle,  was  of  a  bold  and  boyish 
type,  dark,  and  with  a  sort  of  native  heat  in  his 
face  that  did  not  belong  to  the  atmosphere  of 
the  East,  but  rather  to  the  ardors  and  ambitions 
of  the  West  The  other  was  an  older  man  and 
certainly  an  older  resident,  a  civilian  official — 
Home  Fisher;  and  his  drooping  eyelids  and 
drooping  light  mustache  expressed  all  the  para- 
dox of  the  Englishman  in  the  East.  He  was 
much  too  hot  to  be  anything  but  cool. 

Neither  of  them  thought  it  necessary  to  men- 
tion what  it  was  that  was  splendid.  That  would 
indeed  have  been  superfluous  conversation  about 
something  that  everybody  knew.  The  striking 
victory  over  a  menacing  combination  of  Turks 
and  Arabs  in  the  north,  won  by  troops  under  the 
command  of  Lord  Hastings,  the  veteran  of  so 
many  striking  victories,  was  already  spread  by 
the  newspapers  all  over  the  Empire,  let  alone 
to  this  small  garrison  so  near  to  the  battlefield. 

"Now,  no  other  nation  in  the  world  could 
have  done  a  thing  like  that,"  cried  Captain  Boyle, 
emphatically. 

Home  Fisher  was  still  looking  silently  into 
the  well;  a  moment  later  he  answered:  "We  cer- 
9i 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

tainly  have  the  art  of  unmaking  mistakes.  That's 
where  the  poor  old  Prussians  went  wrong.  They 
could  only  make  mistakes  and  stick  to  them. 
There  is  really  a  certain  talent  in  unmaking  a 
mistake." 

"What  do  you  mean,"  asked  Boyle,  "what, 
mistakes?" 

"Well,  everybody  knows  it  looked  like  biting 
off  more  than  he  could  chew,"  replied  Home 
Fisher.  It  was  a  peculiarity  of  Mr.  Fisher  that 
he  always  said  that  everybody  knew  things  which 
about  one  person  in  two  million  was  ever  allowed 
to  hear  of.  "And  it  was  certainly  jolly  lucky 
that  Travers  turned  up  so  well  in  the  nick  of 
time.  Odd  how  often  the  right  thing's  been  done 
for  us  by  the  second  in  command,  even  when  a 
great  man  was  first  in  command.  Like  Colborne 
at  Waterloo." 

"It  ought  to  add  a  whole  province  to  the 
Empire,"  observed  the  other. 

"Well,  I  suppose  the  Zimmernes  would  have 
insisted  on  it  as  far  as  the  canal,"  observed 
Fisher,  thoughtfully,  "though  everybody  knows 
adding  provinces  doesn't  always  pay  much  nowa- 
days." 

Captain  Boyle  frowned  in  a  slightly  puzzled 
fashion.  Being  cloudily  conscious  of  never  hav- 
ing heard  of  the  Zimmernes  in  his  life,  he  could 
only  remark,  stolidly: 

"Well,  one  can't  be  a  Little  Englander." 
92 


The  Bottomless  Well 

Home  Fisher  smiled,  and  he  had  a  pleasant 
smile. 

"Every  man  out  here  is  a  Little  Englander," 
he  said.  "He  wishes  he  were  back  in  Little 
England." 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,  I'm 
afraid,"  said  the  younger  man,  rather  suspi- 
ciously. "One  would  think  you  didn't  really  ad- 
mire Hastings  or-— or — anything." 

"I  admire  him  no  end,"  replied  Fisher.  "He's 
by  far  the  best  man  for  this  post;  he  understands 
the  Moslems  and  can  do  anything  with  them. 
That's  why  I'm  all  against  pushing  Travers 
against  him,  merely  because  of  this  last 
affair." 

"I  really  don't  understand  what  you're  driv- 
ing at,"  said  the  other,  frankly. 

"Perhaps  it  isn't  worth  understanding,"  an- 
swered Fisher,  lightly,  "and,  anyhow,  we  needn't 
talk  politics.  Do  you  know  the  Arab  legend 
about  that  well?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  much  about  Arab 
legends,"  said  Boyle,  rather  stiffly. 

"That's  rather  a  mistake,"  replied  Fisher, 
"especially  from  your  point  of  view.  Lord 
Hastings  himself  is  an  Arab  legend.  That  is 
perhaps  the  very  greatest  thing  he  really  is.  If 
his  reputation  went  it  would  weaken  us  all  over 
Asia  and  Africa.  Well,  the  story  about  that  hole 
in  the  ground,  that  goes  down  nobody  knows 

93 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

where,  has  always  fascinated  me,  rather.  It's 
Mohammedan  in  form  now,  but  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  the  tale  is  a  long  way  older  than 
Mohammed.  It's  all  about  somebody  they  call 
the  Sultan  Aladdin,  not  our  friend  of  the  lamp, 
of  course,  but  rather  like  him  in  having  to  do  with 
genii  or  giants  or  something  of  that  sort.  They 
say  he  commanded  the  giants  to  build  him  a  sort 
of  pagoda,  rising  higher  and  higher  above  all 
the  stars.  The  Utmost  for  the  Highest,  as  the 
people  said  when  they  built  the  Tower  of  Babel. 
But  the  builders  of  the  Tower  of  Babel  were 
quite  modest  and  domestic  people,  like  mice, 
compared  with  old  Aladdin.  They  only  wanted 
a  tower  that  would  reach  heaven — a  mere  trifle. 
He  wanted  a  tower  that  would  pass  heaven  and 
rise  above  it,  and  go  on  rising  for  ever  and  ever. 
And  Allah  cast  him  down  to  earth  with  a  thunder- 
bolt, which  sank  into  the  earth,  boring  a  hole 
deeper  and  deeper,  till  it  made  a  well  that  was 
without  a  bottom  as  the  tower  was  to  have  been 
without  a  top.  And  down  that  inverted  tower 
of  darkness  the  soul  of  the  proud  Sultan  is  fall- 
ing forever  and  ever." 

"What  a  queer  chap  you  are,"  said  Boyle. 
"You  talk  as  if  a  fellow  could  believe  those 
fables." 

"Perhaps  I  believe  the  moral  and  not  the 
fable,"  answered  Fisher.  "But  here  comes  Lady 
Hastings.    You  know  her,  I  think."  < 

94 


The  Bottomless  Well 

The  clubhouse  on  the  golf  links  was  used,  of 
course,  for  many  other  purposes  besides  that  of 
golf.  It  was  the  only  social  center  of  the  gar- 
rison beside  the  strictly  military  headquarters; 
it  had  a  billiard  room  and  a  bar,  and  even  an 
excellent  reference  library  for  those  officers  who 
were  so  perverse  as  to  take  their  profession  seri- 
ously. Among  these  was  the  great  general  him- 
self, whose  head  of  silver  and  face  of  bronze, 
like  that  of  a  brazen  eagle,  were  often  to  be 
found  bent  over  the  charts  and  folios  of  the 
library.  The  great  Lord  Hastings  believed  in 
science  and  study,  as  in  other  severe  ideals  of 
life,  and  had  given  much  paternal  advice  on  the 
point  to  young  Boyle,  whose  appearances  in  that 
place  of  research  were  rather  more  intermittent. 
It  was  from  one  of  these  snatches  of  study  that 
the  young  man  had  just  come  out  through  the 
glass  doors  of  the  library  on  to  the  golf  links. 
But,  above  all,  the  club  was  so  appointed  as  to 
serve  the  social  conveniences  of  ladies  at  least 
as  much  as  gentlemen,  and  Lady  Hastings  was 
able  to  play  the  queen  in  such  a  society  almost 
as  much  as  in  her  own  ballroom.  She  was 
eminently  calculated  and,  as  some  said,  eminently 
inclined  to  play  such  a  part.  She  was  much 
younger  than  her  husband,  an  attractive  and 
sometimes  dangerously  attractive  lady;  and  Mr. 
Home  Fisher  looked  after  her  a  little  sardoni- 
cally as  she  swept  away  with  the  young  soldier. 
95 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

Then  his  rather  dreary  eye  strayed  to  the  green 
and  prickly  growths  round  the  well,  growths  of 
that  curious  cactus  formation  in  which  one  thick 
leaf  grows  directly  out  of  the  other  without  stalk 
or  twig.  It  gave  his  fanciful  mind  a  sinister  feel- 
ing of  a  blind  growth  without  shape  or  purpose. 
A  flower  or  shrub  in  the  West  grows  to  the  blos- 
som which  is  its  crown,  and  is  content.  But  this 
was  as  if  hands  could  grow  out  of  hands  or  legs 
grow  out  of  legs  in  a  nightmare.  "Always  add- 
ing a  province  to  the  Empire,"  he  said,  with  a 
smile,  and  then  added,  more  sadly,  "but  I  doubt 
if  I  was  right,  after  all!" 

A  strong  but  genial  voice  broke  in  on  his 
meditations  and  he  looked  up  and  smiled,  see- 
ing the  face  of  an  old  friend.  The  voice  was, 
indeed,  rather  more  genial  than  the  face,  which 
was  at  the  first  glance  decidedly  grim.  It  was  a 
typically  legal  face,  with  angular  jaws  and  heavy, 
grizzled  eyebrows;  and  it  belonged  to  an  emi- 
nently legal  character,  though  he  was  now  at- 
tached in  a  semimilitary  capacity  to  the  police 
of  that  wild  district.  Cuthbert  Grayne  was  per- 
haps more  of  a  criminologist  than  either  a  law- 
yer or  a  policeman,  but  in  his  more  barbarous 
surroundings  he  had  proved  successful  in  turn- 
ing himself  into  a  practical  combination  of  all 
three.  The  discovery  of  a  whole  series  of 
strange  Oriental  crimes  stood  to  his  credit.  But 
as  few  people  were  acquainted  with,  or  attracted 
96 


The  Bottomless  Well 

to,  such  a  hobby  or  branch  of  knowledge,  his 
intellectual  life  was  somewhat  solitary.  Among 
the  few  exceptions  was  Home  Fisher,  who  had  a 
curious  capacity  for  talking  to  almost  anybody 
about  almost  anything. 

"Studying  botany,  or  is  it  archaeology?"  in- 
quired Grayne.  "I  shall  never  come  to  the  end 
of  your  interests,  Fisher.  I  should  say  that  what 
you  don't  know  isn't  worth  knowing." 

"You  are  wrong,"  replied  Fisher,  with  a  very 
unusual  abruptness  and  even  bitterness.  "It's 
what  I  do  know  that  isn't  worth  knowing.  All 
the  seamy  side  of  things,  all  the  secret  reasons 
and  rotten  motives  and  bribery  and  blackmail 
they  call  politics.  I  needn't  be  so  proud  of  hav- 
ing been  down  all  these  sewers  that  I  should 
brag  about  it  to  the  little  boys  in  the  street." 

"What  do  you  mean?  What's  the  matter 
with  you?"  asked  his  friend.  "I  never  knew 
you  taken  like  this  before." 

"I'm  ashamed  of  myself,"  replied  Fisher. 
"I've  just  been  throwing  cold  water  on  the  en- 
thusiasms of  a  boy." 

"Even  that  explanation  is  hardly  exhaustive," 
observed  the  criminal  expert. 

"Damned  newspaper  nonsense  the  enthusi- 
asms were,  of  course,"  continued  Fisher,  "but  I 
ought  to  know  that  at  that  age  illusions  can  be 
ideals.  And  they're  better  than  the  reality,  any- 
how. But  there  is  one  very  ugly  responsibility 
97 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

about  jolting  a  young  man  out  of  the  rut  of  the 
most  rotten  ideal." 

"And  what  may  that  be?"  inquired  his  friend. 

"It's  very  apt  to  set  him  off  with  the  same 
energy  in  a  much  worse  direction,"  answered 
Fisher;  "a  pretty  endless  sort  of  direction,  a 
bottomless  pit  as  deep  as  the  bottomless  well." 

Fisher  did  not  see  his  friend  until  a  fortnight 
later,  when  he  found  himself  in  the  garden  at 
the  back  of  the  clubhouse  on  the  opposite  side 
from  the  links,  a  garden  heavily  colored  and 
scented  with  sweet  semitropical  plants  in  the 
glow  of  a  desert  sunset.  Two  other  men  were 
with  him,  the  third  being  the  now  celebrated 
second  in  command,  familiar  to  everybody  as 
Tom  Travers,  a  lean,  dark  man,  who  looked 
older  than  his  years,  with  a  furrow  in  his  brow 
and  something  morose  about  the  very  shape  of 
his  black  mustache.  They  had  just  been  served 
with  black  coffee  by  the  Arab  now  officiating  as 
the  temporary  servant  of  the  club,  though  he 
was  a  figure  already  familiar,  and  even  famous, 
as  the  old  servant  of  the  general.  He  went  by 
the  name  of  Said,  and  was  notable  among  other 
Semites  for  that  unnatural  length  of  his  yellow 
face  and  height  of  his  narrow  forehead  which 
is  sometimes  seen  among  them,  and  gave  an  ir- 
rational impression  of  something  sinister,  in  spite 
of  his  agreeable  smile. 

"I  never  feel  as  if  I  could  quite  trust  that 
98 


The  Bottomless  Well 

fellow,"  said  Grayne,  when  the  man  had  gone 
away.  "It's  very  unjust,  I  take  it,  for  he  was 
certainly  devoted  to  Hastings,  and  saved  his  life, 
they  say.  But  Arabs  are  often  like  that,  loyal  to 
one  man.  I  can't  help  feeling  he  might  cut  any- 
body else's  throat,  and  even  do  it  treacherously." 

"Well,"  said  Travers,  with  a  rather  sour  smile, 
"so  long  as  he  leaves  Hastings  alone  the  world 
won't  mind  much." 

There  was  a  rather  embarrassing  silence,  full 
of  memories  of  the  great  battle,  and  then  Home 
Fisher  said,  quietly: 

"The  newspapers  aren't  the  world,  Tom. 
Don't  you  worry  about  them.  Everybody  in 
your  world  knows  the  truth  well  enough." 

"I  think  we'd  better  not  talk  about  the  gen- 
eral just  now,"  remarked  Grayne,  "for  he's  just 
coming  out  of  the  club." 

"He's  not  coming  here,"  said  Fisher.  "He's 
only  seeing  his  wife  to  the  car." 

As  he  spoke,  indeed,  the  lady  came  out  on  the 
steps  of  the  club,  followed  by  her  husband,  who 
then  went  swiftly  in  front  of  her  to  open  the 
garden  gate.  As  he  did  so  she  turned  back  and 
spoke  for  a  moment  to  a  solitary  man  still  sitting 
in  a  cane  chair  in  the  shadow  of  the  doorway, 
the  only  man  left  in  the  deserted  club  save  for 
the  three  that  lingered  in  the  garden.  Fisher 
peered  for  a  moment  into  the  shadow,  and  saw 
that  it  was  Captain  Boyle. 
99 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

The  next  moment,  rather  to  their  surprise,  the 
general  reappeared  and,  remounting  the  steps, 
spoke  a  word  or  two  to  Boyle  in  his  turn.  Then 
he  signaled  to  Said,  who  hurried  up  with  two 
cups  of  coffee,  and  the  two  men  re-entered  the 
club,  each  carrying  his  cup  in  his  hand.  The 
next  moment  a  gleam  of  white  light  in  the  grow- 
ing darkness  showed  that  the  electric  lamps  had 
been  turned  on  in  the  library  beyond. 

"Coffee  and  scientific  researches,"  said 
Travers,  grimly.  "All  the  luxuries  of  learning 
and  theoretical  research.  Well,  I  must  be  going, 
for  I  have  my  work  to  do  as  well."  And  he  got 
up  rather  stiffly,  saluted  his  companions,  and 
strode  away  into  the  dusk. 

"I  only  hope  Boyle  is  sticking  to  scientific 
researches,"  said  Home  Fisher.  "I'm  not  very 
comfortable  about  him  myself.  But  let's  talk 
about  something  else." 

They  talked  about  something  else  longer 
than  they  probably  imagined,  until  the  tropical 
night  had  come  and  a  splendid  moon  painted 
the  whole  scene  with  silver;  but  before  it  was 
bright  enough  to  see  by  Fisher  had  already 
noted  that  the  lights  in  the  library  had  been 
abruptly  extinguished.  He  waited  for  the  two 
men  to  come  out  by  the  garden  entrance,  but 
nobody  came. 

"They  must  have  gone  for  a  stroll  on  the 
links,"  he  said- 

ioo 


The  Bottomless  Well 

"Very  possibly,"  replied  Grayne.  "It's  goings 
to  be  a  beautiful  night." 

A  moment  or  two  after  he  had  spoken  they 
heard  a  voice  hailing  them  out  of  the  shadow 
of  the  clubhouse,  and  were  astonished  to  per- 
ceive Travers  hurrying  toward  them,  calling  out 
as  he  came : 

"I  shall  want  your  help,  you  fellows,"  he  cried. 
"There's  something  pretty  bad  out  on  the  links." 

They  found  themselves  plunging  through  the 
club  smoking  room  and  the  library  beyond,  in 
complete  darkness,  mental  as  well  as  material. 
But  Home  Fisher,  in  spite  of  his  affectation  of 
indifference,  was  a  person  of  a  curious  and  al- 
most transcendental  sensibility  to  atmospheres, 
and  he  already  felt  the  presence  of  something 
more  than  an  accident.  He  collided  with  a  piece 
of  furniture  in  the  library,  and  almost  shuddered 
with  the  shock,  for  the  thing  moved  as  he  could 
never  have  fancied  a  piece  of  furniture  moving. 
It  seemed  to  move  like  a  living  thing,  yielding 
and  yet  striking  back.  The  next  moment  Grayne 
had  turned  on  the  lights,  and  he  saw  he  had  only 
stumbled  against  one  of  the  revolving  bookstands 
that  had  swung  round  and  struck  him;  but  his  in- 
voluntary recoil  had  revealed  to  him  his  own 
subconscious  sense  of  something  mysterious  and 
monstrous.  There  were  several  of  these  revolv- 
ing bookcases  standing  here  and  there  about  the 
library;  on  one  of  them  stood  the  two  cups  of 

IOI 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

coffee,  and  on  another  a  large  open  book.  It 
was  Budge's  book  on  Egyptian  hieroglyphics, 
with  colored  plates  of  strange  birds  and  gods, 
and  even  as  he  rushed  past,  he  was  conscious  of 
something  odd  about  the  fact  that  this,  and  not 
any  work  of  military  science,  should  be  open  in 
that  place  at  that  moment.  He  was  even  con- 
scious of  the  gap  in  the  well-lined  bookshelf 
from  which  it  had  been  taken,  and  it  seemed 
almost  to  gape  at  him  in  an  ugly  fashion,  like  a 
gap  in  the  teeth  of  some  sinister  face. 

A  run  brought  them  in  a  few  minutes  to  the 
other  side  of  the  ground  in  front  of  the  bottom- 
less we'll,  and  a  few  yards  from  it,  in  a  moon- 
light almost  as  broad  as  daylight,  they  saw  what 
they  had  come  to  see. 

The  great  Lord  Hastings  lay  prone  on  his 
face,  in  a  posture  in  which  there  was  a  touch  of 
something  strange  and  stiff,  with  one  elbow  erect 
above  his  body,  the  arm  being  doubled,  and  his 
big,  bony  hand  clutching  the  rank  and  ragged 
grass.  A  few  feet  away  was  Boyle,  almost  as 
motionless,  but  supported  on  his  hands  and  knees, 
and  staring  at  the  body.  It  might  have  been  no 
more  than  shock  and  accident;  but  there  was 
something  ungainly  and  unnatural  about  the 
quadrupedal  posture  and  the  gaping  face.  It 
was  as  if  his  reason  had  fled  from  him.  Behind, 
there  was  nothing  but  the  clear  blue  southern 
sky,  and  the  beginning  of  the  desert,  except  for 
1 02 


The  Bottomless  Well 

the  two  great  broken  stones  in  front  of  the  well. 
And  it  was  in  such  a  light  and  atmosphere  that 
men  could  fancy  they  traced  in  them  enormous 
and  evil  faces,  looking  down. 

Home  Fisher  stooped  and  touched  the  strong 
hand  that  was  still  clutching  the  grass,  and  it 
was  as  cold  as  a  stone.  He  knelt  by  the  body 
and  was  busy  for  a  moment  applying  other  tests; 
then  he  rose  again,  and  said,  with  a  sort  of  con- 
fident despair: 

"Lord  Hastings  is  dead." 

There  was  a  stony  silence,  and  then  Travers 
remarked,  gruffly:  "This  is  your  department, 
Grayne;  I  will  leave  you  to  question  Captain 
Boyle.  I  can  make  no  sense  of  what  he 
says." 

Bgyle  had  pulled  himself  together  and  risen 
to  his  feet,  but  his  face  still  wore  an  awful  ex- 
pression, making  it  like  a  new  mask  or  the  face 
of  another  man. 

"I  was  looking  at  the  well,"  he  said,  "and 
when  I  turned  he  had  fallen  down." 

Grayne's  face  was  very  dark.  "As  you  say, 
this  is  my  affair,"  he  said.  "I  must  first  ask  you 
to  help  me  carry  him  to  the  library  and  let  me 
examine  things  thoroughly." 

When  they  had  deposited  the  body  in  the 
library,  Grayne  turned  to  Fisher  and  said,  in 
a  voice  that  had  recovered  its  fullness  and  con- 
fidence, "I  am  going  to  lock  myself  in  and  make 
8  101 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

a  thorough  examination  first.  I  look  to  you  to 
keep  in  touch  with  the  others  and  make  a  pre- 
liminary examination  of  Boyle.  I  will  talk  to 
him  later.  And  just  telephone  to  headquarters 
for  a  policeman,  and  let  him  come  here  at  once 
and  stand  by  till  I  want  him." 

Without  more  words  the  great  criminal  inves- 
tigator went  into  the  lighted  library,  shutting  the 
door  behind  him,  and  Fisher,  without  replying, 
turned  and  began  to  talk  quietly  to  Travers. 
"It  is  curious,"  he  said,  "that  the  thing  should 
happen  just  in  front  of  that  place." 

"It  would  certainly  be  very  curious,"  replied 
Travers,  "if  the  place  played  any  part  in  it." 

"I  think,"  replied  Fisher,  "that  the  part  it 
didn't  play  is  more  curious  still." 

And  with  these  apparently  meaningless  words 
he  turned  to  the  shaken  Boyle  and,  taking  his 
arm,  began  to  walk  him  up  and  down  in  the  moon- 
light, talking  in  low  tones. 

Dawn  had  begun  to  break  abrupt  and  white 
when  Cuthbert  Grayne  turned  out  the  lights  in 
the  library  and  came  out  on  to  the  links.  Fisher 
was  lounging  about  alone,  in  his  listless  fashion; 
but  the  police  messenger  for  whom  he  had  sent 
was  standing  at  attention  in  the  background. 

"I  sent  Boyle  off  with  Travers,"  observed 
Fisher,  carelessly;  "he'll  look  after  him,  and  he'd 
better  have  some  sleep,  anyhow." 

"Did  you  get  anything  out  of  him?"  asked 
104 


The  Bottomless  Well 

Grayne.    "Did  he  tell  you  what  he  and  Hastings 
were  doing?'* 

"Yes,"  answered  Fisher,  "he  gave  me  a  pretty 
clear  account,  after  all.  He  said  that  after  Lady 
Hastings  went  off  in  the  car  the  general  asked 
him  to  take  coffee  with  him  in  the  library  and 
look  up  a  point  about  local  antiquities.  He  him- 
self was  beginning  to  look  for  Budge's  book  in 
one  of  the  revolving  bookstands  when  the  gen- 
eral found  it  in  one  of  the  bookshelves  on  the 
wall.  After  looking  at  some  of  the  plates  they 
went  out,  it  would  seem,  rather  abruptly,  on  to 
the  links,  and  walked  toward  the  old  well;  and 
while  Boyle  was  looking  into  it  he  heard  a  thud 
behind  him,  and  turned  round  to  find  the  general 
lying  as  we  found  him.  He  himself  dropped  on 
his  knees  to  examine  the  body,  and  then  was 
paralyzed  with  a  sort  of  terror  and  could  not 
come  nearer  to  it  or  touch  it.  But  I  think  very 
little  of  that;  people  caught  in  a  real  shock  of 
surprise  are  sometimes  found  in  the  queerest 
postures." 

Grayne  wore  a  grim  smile  of  attention,  and 
said,  after  a  short  silence: 

"Well,  he  hasn't  told  you  many  lies.  It's 
really  a  creditably  clear  and  consistent  account 
of  what  happened,  with  everything  of  impor- 
tance left  out." 

"Have  you  discovered  anything  in  there?" 
asked  Fisher. 

105 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"I  have  discovered  everything,"  answered 
Grayne. 

Fisher  maintained  a  somewhat  gloomy  silence, 
as  the  other  resumed  his  explanation  in  quiet 
and  assured  tones. 

"You  were  quite  right,  Fisher,  when  you  said 
that  young  fellow  was  in  danger  of  going  down 
dark  ways  toward  the  pit.  Whether  or  no,  as 
you  fancied,  the  jolt  you  gave  to  his  view  of  the 
general  had  anything  to  do  with  it,  he  has  not 
been  treating  the  general  well  for  some  time. 
It's  an  unpleasant  business,  and  I  don't  want  to 
dwell  on  it;  but  it's  pretty  plain  that  his  wife 
was  not  treating  him  well,  either.  I  don't  know 
how  far  it  went,  but  it  went  as  far  as  conceal- 
ment, anyhow;  for  when  Lady  Hastings  spoke  to 
Boyle  it  was  to  tell  him  she  had  hidden  a  note 
in  the  Budge  book  in  the  library.  The  general 
overheard,  or  came  somehow  to  know,  and  he 
went  straight  to  the  book  and  found  it.  He 
confronted  Boyle  with  it,  and  they  had  a  scene, 
of  course.  And  Boyle  was  confronted  with  some- 
thing else;  he  was  confronted  with  an  awful 
alternative,  in  which  the  life  of  one  old  man 
meant  ruin  and  his  death  meant  triumph  and 
even  happiness." 

"Well,"  observed  Fisher,  at  last,  "I  don't  blame 
him  for  not  telling  you  the  woman's  part  of  the 
story.    But  how  do  you  know  about  the  letter?" 

"I  found  it  on  the  general's  body,"  answered 
106 


The  Bottomless  Well 

Grayne,  "but  I  found  worse  things  than  that. 
The  body  had  stiffened  in  the  way  rather  peculiar 
to  poisons  of  a  certain  Asiatic  sort.  Then  I 
examined  the  coffee  cups,  and  I  knew  enough 
chemistry  to  find  poison  in  the  dregs  of  one  of 
them.  Now,  the  General  went  straight  to  the 
bookcase,  leaving  his  cup  of  coffee  on  the  book- 
stand in  the  middle  of  the  room.  While  his 
back  was  turned,  and  Boyle  was  pretending  to 
examine  the  bookstand,  he  was  left  alone  with 
the  coffee  cup.  The  poison  takes  about  ten 
minutes  to  act,  and  ten  minutes'  walk  would 
bring  them  to  the  bottomless  well." 

"Yes,"  remarked  Fisher,  "and  what  about  the 
bottomless  well?" 

"What  has  the  bottomless  well  got  to  do  with 
it?"  asked  his  friend. 

"It  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  replied  Fisher. 
"That  is  what  I  find  utterly  confounding  and 
incredible." 

"And  why  should  that  particular  hole  in  the 
ground  have  anything  to  do  with  it?" 

"It  is  a  particular  hole  in  your  case,"  said 
Fisher.  "But  I  won't  insist  on  that  just  now. 
By  the  way,  there  is  another  thing  I  ought  to 
tell  you.  I  said  I  sent  Boyle  away  in  charge  of 
Travers.  It  would  be  just  as  true  to  say  I  sent 
Travers  in  charge  of  Boyle." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  suspect  Tom 
Travers?"  cried  the  other. 
107 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"He  was  a  deal  bitterer  against  the  general 
than  Boyle  ever  was,"  observed  Home  Fisher, 
with  a  curious  indifference. 

"Man,  you're  not  saying  what  you  mean," 
cried  Grayne.  "I  tell  you  I  found  the  poison  in 
one  of  the  coffee  cups." 

"There  was  always  Said,  of  course,"  added 
Fisher,  "either  for  hatred  or  hire.  We  agreed 
he  was  capable  of  almost  anything." 

"And  we  agreed  he  was  incapable  of  hurting 
his  master,"  retorted  Grayne. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Fisher,  amiably,  "I  dare 
say  you  are  right;  but  I  should  just  like  to  have 
a  look  at  the  library  and  the  coffee  cups." 

He  passed  inside,  while  Grayne  turned  to  the 
policeman  in  attendance  and  handed  him  a  scrib- 
bled note,  to  be  telegraphed  from  headquarters. 
The  man  saluted  and  hurried  off;  and  Grayne, 
following  his  friend  into  the  library,  found  him 
beside  the  bookstand  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
on  which  were  the  empty  cups. 

"This  is  where  Boyle  looked  for  Budge,  or 
pretended  to  look  for  him,  according  to  your 
account,"  he  said. 

As  Fisher  spoke  he  bent  down  in  a  half-crouch- 
ing attitude,  to  look  at  the  volumes  in  the  low, 
revolving  shelf,  for  the  whole  bookstand  was  not 
much  higher  than  an  ordinary  table.  The  next 
moment  he  sprang  up  as  if  he  had  been  stung. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  he  cried. 
108 


The  Bottomless  Well 

Very  few  people,  if  any,  had  ever  seen  Mr. 
Home  Fisher  behave  as  he  behaved  just  then. 
He  flashed  a  glance  at  the  door,  saw  that  the 
open  window  was  nearer,  went  out  of  it  with  a 
flying  leap,  as  if  over  a  hurdle,  and  went  racing 
across  the  turf,  in  the  track  of  the  disappearing 
policeman.  Grayne,  who  stood  staring  after  him, 
soon  saw  his  tall,  loose  figure,  returning,  restored 
to  all  its  normal  limpness  and  air  of  leisure.  He 
was  fanning  himself  slowly  with  a  piece  of  paper, 
the  telegram  he  had  so  violently  intercepted. 

"Lucky  I  stopped  that,"  he  observed.  "We 
must  keep  this  affair  as  quiet  as  death.  Hastings 
must  die  of  apoplexy  or  heart  disease." 

"What  on  earth  is  the  trouble?"  demanded 
the  other  investigator. 

"The  trouble  is,"  said  Fisher,  "that  in  a  few 
days  we  should  have  had  a  very  agreeable  alter- 
native— of  hanging  an  innocent  man  or  knocking 
the  British  Empire  to  hell." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  asked  Grayne,  "that 
this  infernal  crime  is  not  to  be  punished?" 

Fisher  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"It  is  already  punished,"  he  said. 

After  a  moment's  pause  he  went  on.  "You 
reconstructed  the  crime  with  admirable  skill,  old 
chap,  and  nearly  all  you  said  was  true.  Two  men 
with  two  coffee  cups  did  go  into  the  library  and 
did  put  their  cups  on  the  bookstand  and  did  go 
together  to  the  well,  and  one  of  them  was  a 
109 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

murderer  and  had  put  poison  in  the  other's  cup. 
But  it  was  not  done  while  Boyle  was  looking  at 
the  revolving  bookcase.  He  did  look  at  it, 
though,  searching  for  the  Budge  book  with  the 
note  in  it,  but  I  fancy  that  Hastings  had  already 
moved  it  to  the  shelves  on  the  wall.  It  was  part 
of  that  grim  game  that  he  should  find  it  first. 

"Now,  how  does  a  man  search  a  revolving 
bookcase?  He  does  not  generally  hop  all  round 
it  in  a  squatting  attitude,  like  a  frog.  He  simply 
gives  it  a  touch  and  makes  it  revolve. " 

He  was  frowning  at  the  floor  as  he  spoke, 
and  there  was  a  light  under  his  heavy  lids  that 
was  not  often  seen  there.  The  mysticism  that 
was  buried  deep  under  all  the  cynicism  of  his 
experience  was  awake  and  moving  in  the  depths. 
His  voice  took  unexpected  turns  and  inflections, 
almost  as  if  two  men  were  speaking. 

"That  was  what  Boyle  did;  he  barely  touched 
the  thing,  and  it  went  round  as  easily  as  the 
world  goes  round.  Yes,  very  much  as  the  world 
goes  round,  for  the  hand  that  turned  it  was  not 
his.  God,  who  turns  the  wheel  of  all  the  stars, 
touched  that  wheel  and  brought  it  full  circle, 
that  His  dreadful  justice  might  return." 

"I  am  beginning,"  said  Grayne,  slowly,  "to 
have  some  hazy  and  horrible  idea  of  what  you 
mean." 

"It  is  very  simple,"  said  Fisher,  "when  Boyle 
straightened  himself  from  his  stooping  posture, 
no 


The  Bottomless  Well 

something  had  happened  which  he  had  not 
noticed,  which  his  enemy  had  not  noticed,  which 
nobody  had  noticed.  The  two  coffee  cups  had 
exactly  changed  places." 

The  rocky  face  of  Grayne  seemed  to  have 
sustained  a  shock  in  silence;  not  a  line  of  it 
altered,  but  his  voice  when  it  came  was  unex- 
pectedly weakened. 

"I  see  what  you  mean,"  he  said,  uand,  as  you 
say,  the  less  said  about  it  the  better.  It  was 
not  the  lover  who  tried  to  get  rid  of  the  hus- 
band, but — the  other  thing.  And  a  tale  like  that 
about  a  man  like  that  would  ruin  us  here.  Had 
you  any  guess  of  this  at  the  start?" 

"The  bottomless  well,  as  I  told  you,"  an- 
swered Fisher,  quietly;  "that  was  what  stumped 
me  from  the  start.  Not  because  it  had  anything 
to  do  with  it,  because  it  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it." 

He  paused  a  moment,  as  if  choosing  an  ap- 
proach, and  then  went  on :  "When  a  man  knows 
his  enemy  will  be  dead  in  ten  minutes,  and  takes 
him  to  the  edge  of  an  unfathomable  pit,  he  means 
to  throw  his  body  into  it.  What  else  should  he 
do?  A  born  fool  would  have  the  sense  to  do  it, 
and  Boyle  is  not  a  born  fool.  Well,  why  did 
not  Boyle  do  it?  The  more  I  thought  of  it  the 
more  I  suspected  there  was  some  mistake  in  the 
murder,  so  to  speak.  Somebody  had  taken  some- 
body there  to  throw  him  in,  and  yet  he  was  not 
in 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

thrown  in.  I  had  already  an  ugly,  unformed  idea 
of  some  substitution  or  reversal  of  parts;  then  I 
stooped  to  turn  the  bookstand  myself,  by  acci- 
dent, and  I  instantly  knew  everything,  for  I  saw 
the  two  cups  revolve  once  more,  like  moons  in 
the  sky." 

After  a  pause,  Cuthbert  Grayne  said,  "And 
what  are  we  to  say  to  the  newspapers?'* 

"My  friend,  Harold  March,  is  coming  along 
from  Cairo  to-day,"  said  Fisher.  uHe  is  a  very 
brilliant  and  successful  journalist.  But  for  all 
that  he's  a  thoroughly  honorable  man,  so  you 
must  not  tell  him  the  truth." 

Half  an  hour  later  Fisher  was  again  walking 
to  and  fro  in  front  of  the  clubhouse,  with  Cap- 
tain Boyle,  the  latter  by  this  time  with  a  very 
buffeted  and  bewildered  air ;  perhaps  a  sadder  and 
a  wiser  man. 

"What  about  me,  then?"  he  was  saying.  "Am 
I  cleared?    Am  I  not  going  to  be  cleared?" 

"I  believe  and  hope,"  answered  Fisher,  "that 
you  are  not  going  to  be  suspected.  But  you  are 
certainly  not  going  to  be  cleared.  There  must 
be  no  suspicion  against  him,  and  therefore  no  sus- 
picion against  you.  Any  suspicion  against  him, 
let  alone  such  a  story  against  him,  would  knock 
us  endways  from  Malta  to  Mandalay.  He  was 
a  hero  as  well  as  a  holy  terror  among  the  Mos- 
lems. Indeed,  you  might  almost  call  him  a  Mos- 
lem hero  in  the  English  service.  Of  course  he 
112 


The  Bottomless  Well 

got  on  with  them  partly  because  of  his  own  little 
dose  of  Eastern  blood;  he  got  it  from  his  mother, 
the  dancer  from  Damascus;  everybody  knows 
that." 

''Oh,"  repeated  Boyle,  mechanically,  staring 
at  him  with  round  eyes,  "everybody  knows  that." 

"I  dare  say  there  was  a  touch  of  it  in  his  jeal- 
ousy and  ferocious  vengeance,"  went  on  Fisher. 
"But,  for  all  that,  the  crime  would  ruin  us  among 
the  Arabs,  all  the  more  because  it  was  some- 
thing like  a  crime  against  hospitality.  It's  been 
hateful  for  you  and  it's  pretty  horrid  for  me. 
But  there  are  some  things  that  damned  well  can't 
be  done,  and  while  I'm  alive  that's  one  of  them." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Boyle,  glancing 
at  him  curiously.  "Why  should  you,  of  all 
people,  be  so  passionate  about  it?" 

Home  Fisher  looked  at  the  young  man  with  a 
baffling  expression. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "it's  because  I'm  a  Little 
Englander." 

"I  can  never  make  out  what  you  mean  by 
that  sort  of  thing,"  answered  Boyle,  doubtfully. 

"Do  you  think  England  is  so  little  as  all  that?" 
said  Fisher,  with  a  warmth  in  his  cold  voice, 
"that  it  can't  hold  a  man  across  a  few  thousand 
miles.  You  lectured  me  with  a  lot  of  ideal  pa- 
triotism, my  young  friend;  but  it's  practical 
patriotism  now  for  you  and  me,  and  with  no 
lies  to  help  it.  You  talked  as  if  everything  al- 
113 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

ways  went  right  with  us  all  over  the  world,  in  a 
triumphant  crescendo  culminating  in  Hastings. 
I  tell  you  everything  has  gone  wrong  with  us 
here,  except  Hastings.  He  was  the  one  name 
we  had  left  to  conjure  with,  and  that  mustn't  go 
as  well,  no,  by  God!     It's  bad  enough  that  a 

^      there's  no  earthly  English  interest  to  serve,  and 
hell  beating  up  against  us,   simply  because 

to  half  the 
Cabinet.'  It's  ba3  enough^that  an  , JffiJfcP 
tf&ffat  from  Bagdad  should  make  us  fight  his 
battles;  we  can't  fight  with  our  right  hand  cut 
off.  Our  one  score  was  Hastings  and  his  vic- 
tory, which  was  really  somebody  else's  victory. 
Tom  Travers  has  to  suffer,  and  so  have  you." 

Then,  after  a  moment's  silence,  he  pointed 
toward  the  bottomless  well  and  said,  in  a  quieter 
tone: 

"I  told  you  that  I  didn't  believe  in  the  philos- 
ophy of  the  Tower  of  Aladdin.  I  don't  believe 
in  the  Empire  growing  until  it  reaches  the  sky; 
I  don't  believe  in  the  Union  Jack  going  up  and 
up  eternally  like  the  Tower.  But  if  you  think 
I  am  going  to  let  the  Union  Jack  go  down  and 
down  eternally,  like  the  bottomless  well,  down 
into  the  blackness  of  the  bottomless  pit,  down 
in  defeat  and  derision,  amid  the  jeers  of  the  very 
Jews  who  have  sucked  us  dry — no  I  won't,  and 
that's  flat;  not  if  the  Chancellor  were  black- 
114 


The  Bottomless  Well 

mailed  by  twenty  millionaires  with  their  gutter 
rags,  not  if  the  Prime  Minister^tfKfejgi^dfcrt^ 
^I^B^^not  if  Woodville  and  Carstairs 
had  shares  in  twenty  swindling  mines.  If  the 
thing  is  really  tottering,  God  help  it,  it  mustn't 
be  we  who  tip  it  over." 

Boyle  was  regarding  him  with  a  bewilderment 
that  was  almost  fear,  and  had  even  a  touch  of 
distaste. 

"Somehow,"  he  said,  "there  seems  to  be  some- 
thing rather  horrid  about  the  things  you  know." 

"There  is,"  replied  Home  Fisher.  "I  am  not 
at  all  pleased  with  my  small  stock  of  knowledge 
and  reflection.  But  as  it  is  partly  responsible 
for  your  not  being  hanged,  I  don't  know  that  you 
need  complain  of  it." 

And,  as  if  a  little  ashamed  of  his  first  boast, 
he  turned  and  strolled  away  toward  the  bottom- 
less well. 


V 

THE  FAD  OF  THE  FISHERMAN 

A  THING  can  sometimes  be  too  extraor- 
dinary  to  be  remembered.  If  it  is  clean 
out  of  the  course  of  things,  and  has  apparently 
no  causes  and  no  consequences,  subsequent  events 
do  not  recall  it,  and  it  remains  only  a  subcon- 
scious thing,  to  be  stirred  by  some  accident  long 
after.  It  drifts  apart  like  a  forgotten  dream; 
and  it  was  in  the  hour  of  many  dreams,  at  day- 
break and  very  soon  after  the  end  of  dark,  that 
such  a  strange  sight  was  given  to  a  man  sculling 
a  boat  down  a  river  in  the  West  country.  The 
man  was  awake;  indeed,  he  considered  himself 
rather  wide  awake,  being  the  political  journalist, 
Harold  March,  on  his  way  to  interview  various 
political  celebrities  in  their  country  seats.  But 
the  thing  he  saw  was  so  inconsequent  that  it 
might  have  been  imaginary.  It  simply  slipped 
past  his  mind  and  was  lost  in  later  and  utterly 
different  events;  nor  did  he  even  recover  the 
memory  till  he  had  long  afterward  discovered 
the  meaning. 

Pale  mists  of  morning  lay  on  the  fields  and 
the  rushes  along  one  margin  of  the  river;  along 
116 


The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 

the  other  side  ran  a  wall  of  tawny  brick  almost 
overhanging  the  water.  He  had  shipped  his 
oars  and  was  drifting  for  a  moment  with  the 
stream,  when  he  turned  his  head  and  saw  that 
the  monotony  of  the  long  brick  wall  was  broken 
by  a  bridge ;  rather  an  elegant  eighteenth-century 
sort  of  bridge  with  little  columns  of  white  stone 
turning  gray.  There  had  been  floods  and  the 
river  still  stood  very  high,  with  dwarfish  trees 
waist  deep  in  it,  and  rather  a  narrow  arc  of 
white  dawn  gleamed  under  the  curve  of  the 
bridge. 

As  his  own  boat  went  under  the  dark  arch- 
way he  saw  another  boat  coming  toward  him, 
rowed  by  a  man  as  solitary  as  himself.  His 
posture  prevented  much  being  seen  of  him,  but  as 
he  neared  the  bridge  he  stood  up  in  the  boat  and 
turned  round.  He  was  already  so  close  tor  the 
dark  entry,  however,  that  his  whole  figure  was 
black  against  the  morning  light,  and  March  could 
see  nothing  of  his  face  except  the  end  of  two 
long  whiskers  or  mustaches  that  gave  something 
sinister  to  the  silhouette,  like  horns  in  the  wrong 
place.  Even  these  details  March  would  never 
have  noticed  but  for  what  happened  in  the  same 
instant.  As  the  man  came  under  the  low  bridge 
he  made  a  leap  at  it  and  hung,  with  his  legs 
dangling,  letting  the  boat  float  away  from  under 
him.  March  had  a  momentary  vision  of  two 
black  kicking  legs ;  then  of  one  black  kicking  leg ; 
ii7 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

and  then  of  nothing  except  the  eddying  stream 
and  the  long  perspective  of  the  wall.  But  when- 
ever he  thought  of  it  again,  long  afterward^when 
lie  understood  the  story  in  which  it  figured,  it 
was  always  fixed  in  that  one  fantastic  shape — 
as  if  those  wild  legs  were  a  grotesque  graven 
ornament  of  the  bridge  itself,  in  the  manner  of  a 
gargoyle.  At  the  moment  he  merely  passed,  star- 
ing, down  the  stream.  He  could  see  no  flying 
figure  on  the  bridge,  so  it  must  have  already  fled; 
but  he  was  half  conscious  of  some  faint  signifi- 
cance in  the  fact  that  among  the  trees  round  the 
bridgehead  opposite  the  wall  he  saw  a  lamp-post; 
and,  beside  the  lamp-post,  the  broad  blue  back  of 
an  unconscious  policeman. 

Even  before  reaching  the  shrine  of  his  political 
pilgrimage  he  had  many  other  things  to  think  of 
besides  the  odd  incident  of  the  bridge;  for  the 
management  of  a  boat  by  a  solitary  man  was  not 
always  easy  even  on  such  a  solitary  stream.  And 
indeed  it  was  only  by  an  unforeseen  accident  that 
he  was  solitary.  The  boat  had  been  purchased 
and  the  whole  expedition  planned  in  conjunction 
with  a  friend,  who  had  at  the  last  moment  been 
forced  to  alter  all  his  arrangements.  Harold 
March  was  to  have  traveled  with  his  friend 
Home  Fisher  on  that  inland  voyage  to  Wil- 
lowood  Place,  where  the  Prime  Minister  was  a 
guest  at  the  moment.  More  and  more  people 
were  hearing  of  Harold  March,  for  his  striking 
118 


The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 

political  articles  were  opening  to  him  the  doors 
of  larger  and  larger  salons;  but  he  had  never 
met  the  Prime  Minister  yet.  Scarcely  anybody 
among  the  general  public  had  ever  heard  of 
Home  Fisher;  but  he  had  known  the  Prime 
Minister  all  his  life.  For  these  reasons,  had 
the  two  taken  the  projected  journey  together, 
March  might  have  been  slightly  disposed  to 
hasten  it  and  Fisher  vaguely  content  to  lengthen 
it  out.  For  Fisher  was  one  of  those  people  who 
are  born  knowing  the  Prime  Minister.  The 
knowledge  seemed  to  have  no  very  exhilarant 
effect,  and  in  his  case  bore  some  resemblance  to 
being  born  tired.  But  he  was  distinctly  annoyed 
to  receive,  just  as  he  was  doing  a  little  light  pack- 
ing of  fishing  tackle  and  cigars  for  the  journey, 
a  telegram  from  Willowood  asking  him  to  come 
down  at  once  by  train,  as  the  Prime  Minister 
had  to  leave  that  night.  Fisher  knew  that  his 
friend  the  journalist  could  not  possibly  start  till 
the  next  day,  and  he  liked  his  friend  the  journal- 
ist,  and  had  looked  forward  to  a  few  days  on 
the  river.  He  did  not  particularly  like  or  dis- 
like the  Prime  Minister,  but  he  intensely  dis- 
liked the  alternative  of  a  few  hours  in  the  train. 
Nevertheless,  he  accepted  Prime  Ministers  as  he 
accepted  railway  trains — as  part  of  a  system 
which  he,  at  least,  was  not  the  revolutionist  sent 
on  earth  to  destroy.  So  he  telephoned  to  March, 
asking  him,  with  many  apologetic  curses  and 
9  ll9 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

faint  damns,  to  take  the  boat  down  the  river  as 
arranged,  that  they  might  meet  at  Willowood  by 
the  time  settled;  then  he  went  outside  and  hailed 
a  taxicab  to  take  him  to  the  railway  station. 
There  he  paused  at  the  bookstall  to  add  to  his 
light  luggage  a  number  of  cheap  murder  stories, 
which  he  read  with  great  pleasure,  and  without 
any  premonition  that  he  was  about  to  walk  into 
as  strange  a  story  in  real  life. 

A  little  before  sunset  he  arrived,  with  his  light 
suitcase  in  hand,  before  the  gate  of  the  long 
riverside  gardens  of  Willowood  Place,  one  of 
the  smaller  seats  of  Sir  Isaac  Hook,  the  master 
of  much  shipping  and  many  newspapers.  He 
entered  by  the  gate  giving  on  the  road,  at  the 
opposite  side  to  the  river,  but  there  was  a  mixed 
quality  in  all  that  watery  landscape  which  per- 
petually reminded  a  traveler  that  the  river  was 
near.  White  gleams  of  water  would  shine  sud- 
denly like  swords  or  spears  in  the  green  thickets. 
And  even  in  the  garden  itself,  divided  into  courts 
and  curtained  with  hedges  and  high  garden  trees, 
there  hung  everywhere  in  the  air  the  music  of 
water.  The  first  of  the  green  courts  which  he 
entered  appeared  to  be  a  somewhat  neglected 
croquet  lawn,  in  which  was  a  solitary  young  man 
playing  croquet  against  himself.  Yet  he  was  not 
an  enthusiast  for  the  game,  or  even  for  the 
garden;  and  his  sallow  but  well-featured  face 
looked  rather  sullen  than  otherwise.  He  was 
120 


The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 

only  one  of  those  young  men  who  cannot  sup- 
port the  burden  of  consciousness  unless  they  are 
doing  something,  and  whose  conceptions  of  doing 
something  are  limited  to  a  game  of  some  kind. 
He  was  dark  and  well  dressed  in  a  light  holiday 
fashion,  and  Fisher  recognized  him  at  once  as  a 
young  man  named  James  Bullen,  called,  for  some 
unknown  reason,  Bunker.  He  was  the  nephew 
of  Sir  Isaac;  but,  what  was  much  more  impor- 
tant at  the  moment,  he  was  also  the  private  sec- 
retary of  the  Prime  Minister. 

"Hullo,  Bunker !"  observed  Home  Fisher. 
"You're  the  sort  of  man  I  wanted  to  see.  Has 
your  chief  come  down  yet?" 

"He's  only  staying  for  dinner,"  replied  Bul- 
len, with  his  eye  on  the  yellow  ball.  "He's  got  a 
great  speech  to-morrow  at  Birmingham  and  he's 
going  straight  through  to-night.  He's  motoring 
himself  there;  driving  the  car,  I  mean.  It's  the 
one  thing  he's  really  proud  of." 

"You  mean  you're  staying  here  with  your 
uncle,  like  a  good  boy?"  replied  Fisher.  "But 
what  will  the  Chief  do  at  Birmingham  without 
the  epigrams  whispered  to  him  by  his  brilliant 
secretary?" 

"Don't  you  start  ragging  me,"  said  the  young 
man  called  Bunker.  "I'm  only  too  glad  not  to  go 
trailing  after  him.  He  doesn't  know  a  thing 
about  maps  or  money  or  hotels  or  anything,  and 
I  have  to  dance  about  like  a  courier.  As  for  my 
121 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

uncle,  as  I'm  supposed  to  come  into  the  estate, 
it's  only  decent  to  be  here  sometimes." 

"Very  proper,"  replied  the  other.  "Well,  I 
shall  see  you  later  on,"  and,  crossing  the  lawn, 
he  passed  out  through  a  gap  in  the  hedge. 

He  was  walking  across  the  lawn  toward  the 
landing  stage  on  the  river,  and  still  felt  all  around 
him,  under  the  dome  of  golden  evening,  an  Old 
World  savor  and  reverberation  in  that  river- 
haunted  garden.  The  next  square  of  turf  which 
he  crossed  seemed  at  first  sight  quite  deserted, 
till  he  saw  in  the  twilight  of  trees  in  one  corner 
of  it  a  hammock  and  in  the  hammock  a  man, 
reading  a  newspaper  and  swinging  one  leg  over 
the  edge  of  the  net. 

Him  also  he  hailed  by  name,  and  the  man 
slipped  to  the  ground  and  strolled  forward.  It 
seemed  fated  that  he  should  feel  something  of 
the  past  in  the  accidents  of  that  place,  for  the 
figure  might  well  have  been  an  early-Victorian 
ghost  revisiting  the  ghosts  of  the  croquet  hoops 
and  mallets.  It  was  the  figure  of  an  elderly  man 
with  long  whiskers  that  looked  almost  fantastic, 
and  a  quaint  and  careful  cut  of  collar  and  cravat. 
Having  been  a  fashionable  dandy  forty  year3 
ago,  he  had  managed  to  preserve  the  dandyism 
while  ignoring  the  fashions.  A  white  top-hat 
lay  beside  the  Morning  Post  in  the  hammock 
behind  him.  This  was  the  Duke  of  Westmore- 
land, the  relic  of  a  family  really  some  centuries 
122 


The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 

old ;  and  the  antiquity  was  not  heraldry  but  his- 
tory. Nobody  knew  better  than  Fisher  how 
rare  such  noblemen  are  in  fact,  and  how  numer- 
ous in  fiction.  But  whether  the  duke  owed  the 
general  respect  he  enjoyed  to  the  genuineness  of 
his  pedigree  or  to  the  fact  that  he  owned  a  vast 
amount  of  very  valuable  property  was  a  point 
about  which  Mr.  Fisher's  opinion  might  have 
been  more  interesting  to  discover. 

"You  were  looking  so  comfortable,"  said 
Fisher,  "that  I  thought  you  must  be  one  of  the 
servants.  I'm  looking  for  somebody  to  take  this 
bag  of  mine ;  I  haven't  brought  a  man  down,  as 
I  came  away  in  a  hurry." 

"Nor  have  I,  for  that  matter,"  replied  the 
duke,  with  some  pride.  "I  never  do.  If  there's 
one  animal  alive  I  loathe  it's  a  valet.  I  learned 
to  dress  myself  at  an  early  age  and  was  sup- 
posed to  do  it  decently.  I  may  be  in  my  second 
childhood,  but  I've  not  go  so  far  as  being  dressed 
like  a  child." 

"The  Prime  Minister  hasn't  brought  a  valet; 
he's  brought  a  secretary  instead,"  observed 
Fisher.  "Devilish  inferior  job.  Didn't  I  hear 
that  Harker  was  down  here?" 

"He's  over  there  on  the  landing  stage,"  re- 
plied the  duke,  indifferently,  and  resumed  the 
study  of  the  Morning  Post. 

Fisher  made  his  way  beyond  the  last  green 
wall  of  the  garden  on  to  a  sort  of  towing  path 
123 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

looking  on  the  river  and  a  wooden  island  oppo- 
site. There,  indeed,  he  saw  a  lean,  dark  figure 
with  a  stoop  almost  like  that  of  a  vulture,  a 
posture  well  known  in  the  law  courts  as  that  of 
Sir  John  Harker,  the  Attorney-General.  His 
face  was  lined  with  headwork,  for  alone  among 
the  three  idlers  in  the  garden  he  was  a  man 
who  had  made  his  own  way;  and  round  his  bald 
brow  and  hollow  temples  clung  dull  red  hair, 
quite  flat,  like  plates  of  copper. 

"I  haven't  seen  my  host  yet,"  said  Home 
Fisher,  in  a  slightly  more  serious  tone  than  he 
had  used  to  the  others,  "but  I  suppose  I  shall 
meet  him  at  dinner." 

"You  can  see  him  now;  but  you  can't  meet 
him,"  answered  Harker. 

He  nodded  his  head  toward  one  end  of  the 
island  opposite,  and,  looking  steadily  in  the  same 
direction,  the  other  guest  could  see  the  dome  of 
a  bald  head  and  the  top  of  a  fishing  rod,  both 
equally  motionless,  rising  out  of  the  tall  under- 
growth against  the  background  of  the  stream 
beyond.  The  fisherman  seemed  to  be  seated 
against  the  stump  of  a  tree  and  facing  toward 
the  other  bank,  so  that  his  face  could  not  be 
seen,  but  the  shape  of  his  head  was  unmistakable. 

"He  doesn't  like  to  be  disturbed  when  he's 

fishing,"  continued  Harker.     "It's  a  sort  of  fad 

of  his  to  eat  nothing  but  fish,   and  he's  very 

proud  of  catching  his  own.     Of  course  he's  all 

124 


The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 

for  simplicity,  like  so  many  of  these  millionaires. 
He  likes  to  come  in  saying  he's  worked  for  his 
daily  bread  like  a  laborer." 

"Does  he  explain  how  he  blows  all  the  glass 
and  stuffs  all  the  upholstery,"  asked  Fisher,  "and 
makes  all  the  silver  forks,  and  grows  all  the 
grapes  and  peaches,  and  designs  all  the  patterns 
on  the  carpets  ?    I've  always  heard  he  was  a  busy 


man." 


"I  don't  think  he  mentioned  it,"  answered  the 
lawyer.  "What  is  the  meaning  of  this  social 
satire?" 

"Well,  I  am  a  trifle  tired,"  said  Fisher,  "of 
the  Simple  Life  and  the  Strenuous  Life  as  lived 
by  our  little  set.  We're  all  really  dependent  in 
nearly  everything,  and  we  all  make  a  fuss  about 
being  independent  in  something.  The  Prime 
Minister  prides  himself  on  doing  without  a 
chauffeur,  but  he  can't  do  without  a  factotum 
and  Jack-of-all-trades ;  and  poor  old  Bunker  has 
to  play  the  part  of  a  universal  genius,  which  God 
knows  he  was  never  meant  for.  The  duke  prides 
himself  on  doing  without  a  valet,  but,  for  all  that, 
he  must  give  a  lot  of  people  an  infernal  lot  of 
trouble  to  collect  such  extraordinary  old  clothes 
as  he  wears.  He  must  have  them  looked  up  in 
the  British  Museum  or  excavated  out  of  the 
tombs.  That  white  hat  alone  must  require  a 
sort  of  expedition  fitted  out  to  find  it,  like  the 
North  Pole.  And  here  we  have  old  Hook  pre- 
125 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

tending  to  produce  his  own  fish  when  he  couldn't 
produce  his  own  fish  knives  or  fish  forks  to  eat 
it  with.  He  may  be  simple  about  simple  things 
like  food,  but  you  bet  he's  luxurious  about  luxuri- 
ous things,  especially  little  things.  I  don't  include 
you;  you've  worked  too  hard  to  enjoy  playing 
at  work." 

"I  sometimes  think,"  said  Harker,  "that  you 
conceal  a  horrid  secret  of  being  useful  sometimes. 
Haven't  you  come  down  here  to  see  Number 
One  before  he  goes  on  to  Birmingham?" 

Home  Fisher  answered,  in  a  lower  voice: 
"Yes;  and  I  hope  to  be  lucky  enough  to  catch 
him  before  dinner.  He's  got  to  see  Sir  Isaac 
about  something  just  afterward." 

"Hullo!"  exclaimed  Harker.  "Sir  Isaac's 
finished  his  fishing.  I  know  he  prides  himself 
on  getting  up  at  sunrise  and  going  in  at  sunset." 

The  old  man  on  the  island  had  indeed  risen 
to  his  feet,  facing  round  and  showing  a  bush 
of  gray  beard  with  rather  small,  sunken  features, 
but  fierce  eyebrows  and  keen,  choleric  eyes.  Care- 
fully carrying  his  fishing  tackle,  he  was  already 
making  his  way  back  to  the  mainland  across  a 
bridge  of  flat  stepping-stones  a  little  way  down 
the  shallow  stream;  then  he  veered  round,  com- 
ing toward  his  guests  and  civilly  saluting  them. 
There  were  several  fish  in  his  basket  and  he  was 
in  a  good  temper. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  acknowledging  Fisher's  polite 
126 


The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 

expression  of  surprise,  "I  get  up  before  anybody 
else  in  the  house,  I  think.  The  early  bird  catches 
the  worm." 

"Unfortunately,'*  said  Harker,  "it  is  the  early 
fish  that  catches  the  worm." 

"But  the  early  man  catches  the  fish,"  replied 
the  old  man,  gruffly. 

"But  from  what  I  hear,  Sir  Isaac,  you  are 
the  late  man,  too,"  interposed  Fisher.  "You 
must  do  with  very  little  sleep." 

"I  never  had  much  time  for  sleeping,"  an- 
swered Hook,  "and  I  shall  have  to  be  the  late 
man  to-night,  anyhow.  The  Prime  Minister 
wants  to  have  a  talk,  he  tells  me,  and,  all  things 
considered,  I  think  we'd  better  be  dressing  for 
dinner." 

Dinner  passed  off  that  evening  without  a  word 
of  politics  and  little  enough  but  ceremonial  trifles. 
The  Prime  Minister,  Lord  Merivale,  who  was  a 
long,  slim  man  with  curly  gray  hair,  was  gravely 
complimentary  to  his  host  about  his  success  as  a 
fisherman  and  the  skill  and  patience  he  displayed; 
the  conversation  flowed  like  the  shallow  stream 
through  the  stepping-stones. 

"It  wants  patience  to  wait  for  them,  no  doubt," 
said  Sir  Isaac,  "and  skill  to  play  them,  but  I'm 
generally  pretty  lucky  at  it." 

"Does  a  big  fish  ever  break  the  line  and  get 
away?"  inquired  the  politician,  with  respectful 
interest. 

127 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"Not  the  sort  of  line  I  use,"  answered  Hook, 
with  satisfaction.  "I  rather  specialize  in  tackle, 
as  a  matter  of  fact.  If  he  were  strong  enough 
to  do  that,  he'd  be  strong  enough  to  pull  me  into 
the  river." 

"A  great  loss  to  the  community,"  said  the 
Prime  Minister,  bowing. 

Fisher  had  listened  to  all  these  futilities  with 
inward  impatience,  waiting  for  his.  own  oppor- 
tunity, and  when  the  host  rose  he  sprang  to  his 
feet  with  an  alertness  he  rarely  showed.  He 
managed  to  catch  Lord  Merivale  before  Sir 
Isaac  bore  him  off  for  the  final  interview.  He 
had  only  a  few  words  to  say,  but  he  wanted  to 
get  them  said. 

He  said,  in  a  low  voice  as  he  opened  the  door 
for  the  Premier,  "I  have  seen  Montmirail ;  he 
says  that  unless  we  protest  immediately  on  be- 
half of  Denmark,  Sweden  will  certainly  seize  the 
ports." 

Lord  Merivale  nodded.  "I'm  just  going  to 
hear  what  Hook  has  to  say  about  it,"  he 
said. 

"I  imagine,"  said  Fisher,  with  a  faint  smile, 
"that  there  is  very  little  doubt  what  he  will  say 
about  it." 

Merivale  did  not  answer,  but  lounged  grace- 
fully toward  the  library,  whither  his  host  had 
already  preceded  him.  The  rest  drifted  toward 
the  billiard  room,  Fisher  merely  remarking  to 
128 


The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 

the  lawyer:  "They  won't  be  long.  We  know 
they're  practically  in  agreement." 

"Hook  entirely  supports  the  Prime  Minister," 
assented  Harker. 

"Or  the  Prime  Minister  entirely  supports 
Hook,"  said  Home  Fisher,  and  began  idly  to 
knock  the  balls  about  on  the  billiard  table. 

Home  Fisher  came  down  next  morning  in  a 
late  and  leisurely  fashion,  as  was  his  reprehen- 
sible habit;  he  had  evidently  no  appetite  for 
catching  worms.  But  the  other  guests  seemed  to 
have  felt  a  similar  indifference,  and  they  helped 
themselves  to  breakfast  from  the  sideboard  at 
intervals  during  the  hours  verging  upon  lunch. 
So  that  it  was  not  many  hours  later  when  the 
first  sensation  of  that  strange  day  came  upon 
them.  It  came  in  the  form  of  a  young  man  with 
light  hair  and  a  candid  expression,  who  came 
sculling  down  the  river  and  disembarked  at  the 
landing  stage.  It  was,  in  fact,  no  other  than 
Mr.  Harold  March,  whose  journey  had  begun 
far  away  up  the  river  in  the  earliest  hours  of 
that  day.  He  arrived  late  in  the  afternoon,  hav- 
ing stopped  for  tea  in  a  large  riverside  town, 
and  he  had  a  pink  evening  paper  sticking  out  of 
his  pocket.  He  fell  on  the  riverside  garden  like 
a  quiet  and  well-behaved  thunderbolt,  but  he  was 
a  thunderbolt  without  knowing  it. 

The  first  exchange  of  salutations  and  introduc- 
tions was  commonplace  enough,  and  consisted, 
129 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

indeed,  of  the  inevitable  repetition  of  excuses  for 
the  eccentric  seclusion  of  the  host.  He  had  gone 
fishing  again,  of  course,  and  must  not  be  dis- 
turbed till  the  appointed  hour,  though  he  sat 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  where  they  stood. 

"You  see  it's  his  only  hobby,"  observed 
Harker,  apologetically,  "and,  after  all,  it's  his 
own  house;  and  he's  very  hospitable  in  other 
ways." 

"I'm  rather  afraid,"  said  Fisher,  in  a  lower 
voice,  "that  it's  becoming  more  of  a  mania  than 
a  hobby.  I  know  how  it  is  when  a  man  of  that 
age  begins  to  collect  things,  if  it's  only  collecting 
those  rotten  little  river  fish.  You  remember 
Talbot's  uncle  with  his  toothpicks,  and  poor  old 
Buzzy  and  the  waste  of  cigar  ashes.  Hook  has 
done  a  lot  of  big  things  in  his  time — the  great 
deal  in  the  Swedish  timber  trade  and  the  Peace 
Conference  at  Chicago — but  I  doubt  whether  he 
cares  now  for  any  of  those  big  things  as  he  cares 
for  those  little  fish." 

"Oh,  come,  come,"  protested  the  Attorney- 
General.  "You'll  make  Mr.  March  think  he  has 
come  to  call  on  a  lunatic.  Believe  me,  Hook 
only  does  it  for  fun,  like  any  other  sport,  only 
he's  of  the  kind  that  takes  his  fun  sadly.  But 
I  bet  if  there  were  big  news  about  timber  or  ship- 
ping, he  would  drop  his  fun  and  his  fish  all  right." 

"Well,  I  wonder,"  said  Home  Fisher,  look- 
ing sleepily  at  the  island  in  the  river. 
130 


The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 

"By  the  way,  is  there  any  news  of  anything?" 
asked  Harker  of  Harold  March.  "I  see  you've 
got  an  evening  paper;  one  of  those  enterprising 
evening  papers  that  come  out  in  the  morning." 

"The  beginning  of  Lord  Merivale's  Birming- 
ham speech,"  replied  March,  handing  him  the 
paper.  "It's  only  a  paragraph,  but  it  seems  to 
me  rather  good." 

Harker  took  the  paper,  flapped  and  refolded 
it,  and  looked  at  the  "Stop  Press"  news.  It  was, 
as  March  had  said,  only  a  paragraph.  But  it 
was  a  paragraph  that  had  a  peculiar  effect  on 
Sir  John  Harker.  His  lowering  brows  lifted 
with  a  flicker  and  his  eyes  blinked,  and  for  a 
moment  his  leathery  jaw  was  loosened.  He 
looked  in  some  odd  fashion  like  a  very  old  man. 
Then,  hardening  his  voice  and  handing  the  paper 
to  Fisher  without  a  tremor,  he  simply  said: 

"Well,  here's  a  chance  for  the  bet.  You've 
got  your  big  news  to  disturb  the  old  man's  fish- 
ing. 

Home  Fisher  was  looking  at  the  paper,  and 
over  his  more  languid  and  less  expressive  fea- 
tures a  change  also  seemed  to  pass.  Even  that 
little  paragraph  had  two  or  three  large  headlines, 
and  his  eye  encountered,  "Sensational  Warning 
to  Sweden,"  and,  "We  Shall  Protest." 

"What  the  devil "  he  said,  and  his  words 

softened  first  to  a  whisper  and  then  a  whistle. 

"We  must  tell  old  Hook  at  once,  or  he'll  never 
131 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

forgive  us,"  said  Harker.  "He'll  probably  want 
to  see  Number  One  instantly,  though  it  may  be 
too  late  now.  I'm  going  across  to  him  at  once.  I 
bet  I'll  make  him  forget  his  fish,  anyhow."  And, 
turning  his  back,  he  made  his  way  hurriedly  along 
the  riverside  to  the  causeway  of  flat  stones. 

March  was  staring  at  Fisher,  in  amazement 
at  the  effect  his  pink  paper  had  produced. 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  he  cried.  "I  al- 
ways supposed  we  should  protest  in  defense 
of  the  Danish  ports,  for  their  sakes  and  our 
own.  What  is  all  this  botheration  about  Sir 
Isaac  and  the  rest  of  you?  Do  you  think  it 
bad  news?" 

"Bad  news !"  repeated  Fisher,  with  a  sort  of 
soft  emphasis  beyond  expression. 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  all  that?"  asked  his  friend, 
at  last. 

"As  bad  as  all  that?"  repeated  Fisher.  "Why 
of  course  it's  as  good  as  it  can  be.  It's  great 
news.  It's  glorious  news!  That's  where  the 
devil  of  it  comes  in,  to  knock  us  all  silly.  It's 
admirable.  It's  inestimable.  It  is  also  quite 
incredible." 

He  gazed  again  at  the  gray  and  green  colors 
of  the  island  and  the  river,  and  his  rather  dreary 
eye  traveled  slowly  round  to  the  hedges  and  the 
lawns. 

"I  felt  this  garden  was  a  sort  of  dream,"  he 
said,  "and  I  suppose  I  must  be  dreaming.  But 
132 


The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 

there  is  grass  growing  and  water  moving;  and 
something  impossible  has  happened." 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  dark  figure  with  a  stoop 
like  a  vulture  appeared  in  the  gap  of  the  hedge 
just  above  him. 

"You  have  won  your  bet,"  said  Harker,  in  a 
harsh  and  almost  croaking  voice.  "The  old  fool 
cares  for  nothing  but  fishing.  He  cursed  me 
and  told  me  he  would  talk  no  politics." 

"I  thought  it  might  be  so,"  said  Fisher,  mod- 
estly.   "What  are  you  going  to  do  next?" 

"I  shall  use  the  old  idiot's  telephone,  any- 
how," replied  the  lawyer.  "I  must  find  out  ex- 
actly what  has  happened.  IVe  got  to  speak  for 
the  Government  myself  to-morrow."  And  he 
hurried  away  toward  the  house. 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  a  very  bewilder- 
ing silence  so  far  as  March  was  concerned,  they 
saw  the  quaint  figure  of  the  Duke  of  Westmore- 
land, with  his  white  hat  and  whiskers,  approach- 
ing them  across  the  garden.  Fisher  instantly 
stepped  toward  him  with  the  pink  paper  in  his 
hand,  and,  with  a  few  words,  pointed  out  the 
apocalyptic  paragraph.  The  duke,  who  had  been 
walking  slowly,  stood  quite  still,  and  for  some 
seconds  he  looked  like  a  tailor's  dummy  standing 
and  staring  outside  some  antiquated  shop.  Then 
March  heard  his  voice,  and  it  was  high  and  al- 
most hysterical: 

"But  he  must  see  it ;  he  must  be  made  to  under- 
133 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

stand.  It  cannot  have  been  put  to  him  properly." 
Then,  with  a  certain  recovery  of  fullness  and 
even  pomposity  in  the  voice,  "I  shall  go  and  tell 
him  myself." 

Among  the  queer  incidents  of  that  afternoon, 
March  always  remembered  something  almost 
comical  about  the  clear  picture  of  the  old  gentle- 
man in  his  wonderful  white  hat  carefully  step- 
ping from  stone  to  stone  across  the  river,  like 
a  figure  crossing  the  traffic  in  Piccadilly.  Then 
he  disappeared  behind  the  trees  of  the  island,  and 
March  and  Fisher  turned  to  meet  the  Attorney- 
General,  who  was  coming  out  of  the  house  with 
a  visage  of  grim  assurance. 

"Everybody  is  saying,"  he  said,  "that  the 
Prime  Minister  has  made  the  greatest  speech  of 
his  life.  Peroration  and  loud  and  prolonged 
cheers.  Corrupt  financiers  and  heroic  peasants. 
We  will  not  desert  Denmark  again." 

Fisher  nodded  and  turned  away  toward  the 
towing  path,  where  he  saw  the  duke  returning 
with  a  rather  dazed  expression.  In  answer  to 
question,  he  said,  in  a  husky  and  confidential 
voice : 

"I  really  think  our  poor  friend  cannot  be  him- 
self. He  refused  to  listen;  he — ah — suggested 
that  I  might  frighten  the  fish." 

A  keen  ear  might  have  detected  a  murmur 
from  Mr.  Fisher  on  the  subject  of  a  white  hat, 
but  Sir  John  Harker  struck  it  more  decisively : 
134 


The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 

"Fisher  was  quite  right.  I  didn't  believe  it 
myself,  but  it's  quite  clear  that  the  old  fellow  is 
fixed  on  this  fishing  notion  by  now.  If  the  house 
caught  fire  behind  him  he  would  hardly  move 
till  sunset." 

Fisher  had  continued  his  stroll  toward  the 
higher  embanked  ground  of  the  towing  path, 
and  he  now  swept  a  long  and  searching  gaze, 
not  toward  the  island,  but  toward  the  distant 
wooded  heights  that  were  the  walls  of  the  valley. 
An  evening  sky  as  clear  as  that  of  the  previous 
day  was  settling  down  all  over  the  dim  landscape, 
but  toward  the  west  it  was  now  red  rather  than 
gold;  there  was  scarcely  any  sound  but  the  mo- 
notonous music  of  the  river.  Then  came  the 
sound  of  a  half-stifled  exclamation  from  Home 
Fisher,  and  Harold  March  looked  up  at  him  in 
wonder. 

"You  spoke  of  bad  news,"  said  Fisher.  "Well, 
there  is  really  bad  news  now.  I  am  afraid  this  is 
a  bad  business." 

"What  bad  news  do  you  mean?"  asked  his 
friend,  conscious  of  something  strange  and  sinis- 
ter in  his  voice. 

"The  sun  has  set,"  answered  Fisher. 

He  went  on  with  the  air  of  one  conscious  of 
having  said  something  fatal.  "We  must  get  some- 
body to  go  across  whom  he  will  really  listen  to. 
He  may  be  mad,  but  there's  method  in  his  mad- 
ness. There  nearly  always  is  method  in  madness. 
10  135 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

It's  what  drives  men  mad,  being  methodical. 
And  he  never  goes  on  sitting  there  after  sunset, 
with  the  whole  place  getting  dark.  Where's 
his  nephew?  I  believe  he's  really  fond  of  his 
nephew." 

"Look!"  cried  March,  abruptly.  "Why,  he's 
been  across  already.    There  he  is  coming  back." 

And,  looking  up  the  river  once  more,  they 
saw,  dark  against  the  sunset  reflections,  the  fig- 
ure of  James  Bullen  stepping  hastily  and  rather 
clumsily  from  stone  to  stone.  Once  he  slipped 
on  a  stone  with  a  slight  splash.  When  he  re- 
joined the  group  on  the  bank  his  olive  face  was 
unnaturally  pale. 

The  other  four  men  had  already  gathered  on 
the  same  spot  and  almost  simultaneously  were 
calling  out  to  him,  "What  does  he  say  now?" 

"Nothing.     He  says — nothing." 

Fisher  looked  at  the  young  man  steadily  for 
a  moment;  then  he  started  from  his  immobility 
and,  making  a  motion  to  March  to  follow  him, 
himself  strode  down  to  the  river  crossing.  In 
a  few  moments  they  were  on  the  little  beaten 
track  that  ran  round  the  wooded  island,  to  the 
other  side  of  it  where  the  fisherman  sat.  Then 
they  stood  and  looked  at  him,  without  a  word. 

Sir  Isaac  Hook  was  still  sitting  propped  up 

against  the  stump  of  the  tree,  and  that  for  the 

best  of  reasons.     A  length  of  his  own  infallible 

fishing  line  was  twisted  and  tightened  twice  round 

136 


The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 

his  throat  and  then  twice  round  the  wooden  prop 
behind  him.  The  leading  investigator  ran  for- 
ward and  touched  the  fisherman's  hand,  and  it 
was  as  cold  as  a  fish. 

"The  sun  has  set,"  said  Home  Fisher,  in  the 
same  terrible  tones,  "and  he  will  never  see  it 
rise  again." 

Ten  minutes  afterward  the  five  men,  shaken 
by  such  a  shock,  were  again  together  in  the 
garden,  looking  at  one  another  with  white  but 
watchful  faces.  The  lawyer  seemed  the  most 
alert  of  the  group;  he  was  articulate  if  some- 
what abrupt. 

"We  must  leave  the  body  as  it  is  and  telephone 
for  the  police,"  he  said.  "I  think  my  own  au- 
thority will  stretch  to  examining  the  servants  and 
the  poor  fellow's  papers,  to  see  if  there  is  any- 
thing that  concerns  them.  Of  course,  none  of 
you  gentlemen  must  leave  this  place." 

Perhaps  there  was  something  in  his  rapid  and 
rigorous  legality  that  suggested  the  closing  of  a 
net  or  trap.  Anyhow,  young  Bullen  suddenly 
broke  down,  or  perhaps  blew  up,  for  his  voice 
was  like  an  explosion  in  the  silent  garden. 

"I  never  touched  him,"  he  cried.  "I  swear  I 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it!" 

"Who  said  you  had?"  demanded  Harker,  with 
a  hard  eye.  "Why  do  you  cry  out  before  you're 
hurt?" 

"Because  you  all  look  at  me  like  that,"  cried 
137 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

the  young  man,  angrily.  "Do  you  think  I  don't 
know  you're  always  talking  about  my  damned 
debts  and  expectations?" 

Rather  to  March's*  surprise,  Fisher  had  drawn 
away  from  this  first  collision,  leading  the  duke 
with  him  to  another  part  of  the  garden.  When 
he  was  out  of  earshot  of  the  others  he  said,  with 
a  curious  simplicity  of  manner: 

"Westmoreland,  I  am  going  straight  to  the 
point." 

"Well?"  said  the  other,  staring  at  him  stolidly. 

"You  have  a  motive  for  killing  him,"  said 
Fisher. 

The  duke  continued  to  stare,  but  he  seemed 
unable  to  speak. 

"I  hope  you  had  a  motive  for  killing  him," 
continued  Fisher,  mildly.  "You  see,  it's  rather 
a  curious  situation.  If  you  have  a  motive  for 
murdering,  you  probably  didn't  murder.  But 
if  you  hadn't  any  motive,  why,  then  perhaps, 
you  did." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about?"  de- 
manded the  duke,  violently. 

"It's  quite  simple,"  said  Fisher.  "When  you 
went  across  he  was  either  alive  or  dead.  If  he 
was  alive,  it  might  be  you  who  killed  him,  or 
why  should  you  have  held  your  tongue  about  his 
death?  But  if  he  was  dead,  and  you  had  a  rea- 
son for  killing  him,  you  might  have  held  your 
tongue  for  fear  of  being  accused."  Then  after 
138 


The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 

a  silence  he  added,  abstractedly:  "Cyprus  is  a 
beautiful  place,  I  believe.  Romantic  scenery  and 
romantic  people.    Very  intoxicating  for  a  young 


man." 


The  duke  suddenly  clenched  his  hands  and 
said,  thickly,  "Well,  I  had  a  motive." 

"Then  you're  all  right,"  said  Fisher,  holding 
out  his  hand  with  an  air  of  huge  relief.  "I  was 
pretty  sure  you  wouldn't  really  do  it;  you  had  a 
fright  when  you  saw  it  done,  as  was  only  natural. 
Like  a  bad  dream  come  true,  wasn't  it?" 

While  this  curious  conversation  was  passing, 
Harker  had  gone  into  the  house,  disregarding  the 
demonstrations  of  the  sulky  nephew,  and  came 
back  presently  with  a  new  air  of  animation  and 
a  sheaf  of  papers  in  his  hand. 

"I've  telephoned  for  the  police,"  he  said,  stop- 
ping to  speak  to  Fisher,  "but  I  think  I've  done 
most  of  their  work  for  them.     I  believe  I've 

found  out  the  truth.    There's  a  paper  here " 

He  stopped,  for  Fisher  was  looking  at  him  with 
a  singular  expression;  and  it  was  Fisher  who 
spoke  next: 

"Are  there  any  papers  that  are  not  there,  I 
wonder?  I  mean  that  are  not  there  now?" 
After  a  pause  he  added:  "Let  us  have  the  cards 
on  the  table.  When  you  went  through  his  papers 
in  such  a  hurry,  Harker,  weren't  you  looking  for 
something  to — to  make  sure  it  shouldn't  be 
found  T' 

139 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

Harker  did  not  turn  a  red  hair  on  his  hard 
head,  but  he  looked  at  the  other  out  of  the  cor- 
ners of  his  eyes. 

"And  I  suppose,"  went  on  Fisher,  smoothly, 
"that  is  why  you,  too,  told  us  lies  about  having 
found  Hook  alive.  You  knew  there  was  some- 
thing to  show  that  you  might  have  killed  him, 
and  you  didn't  dare  tell  us  he  was  killed.  But, 
believe  me,  it's  much  better  to  be  honest 
now." 

Harker's  haggard  face  suddenly  lit  up  as  if 
with  infernal  flames. 

"Honest,"  he  cried,  "it's  not  so  damned  fine 
of  you  fellows  to  be  honest.  You're  all  born 
with  silver  spoons  in  your  mouths,  and  then  you 
swagger  about  with  everlasting  virtue  because 
you  haven't  got  other  people's  spoons  in  your 
pockets.  But  I  was  born  in  a  Pimlico  lodging 
house  and  I  had  to  make  my  spoon,  and  there'd 
be  plenty  to  say  I  only  spoiled  a  horn  or  an  honest 
man.  And  if  a  struggling  man  staggers  a  bit 
over  the  line  in  his  youth,  in  the  lower  parts  of 
the  law  which  are  pretty  dingy,  anyhow,  there's 
always  some  old  vampire  to  hang  on  to  him  all 
his  life  for  it." 

"Guatemalan  Golcondas,  wasn't  it?"  said 
Fisher,  sympathetically. 

Harker  suddenly  shuddered.  Then  he  said, 
"I  believe  you  must  know  everything,  like  God 
Almighty." 

140 


The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 

"I  know  too  much,"  said  Home  Fisher,  "and 
all  the  wrong  things." 

The  other  three  men  were  drawing  nearer  to 
them,  but  before  they  came  too  near,  Harker 
said,  in  a  voice  that  had  recovered  all  its  firmness : 

"Yes,  I  did  destroy  a  paper,  but  I  really  did 
find  a  paper,  too;  and  I  believe  that  it  clears  us 
all." 

"Very  well,"  said  Fisher,  in  a  louder  and 
more  cheerful  tone;  "let  us  all  have  the  benefit 
of  it." 

"On  the  very  top  of  Sir  Isaac's  papers,"  ex- 
plained Harker,  "there  was  a  threatening  letter 
from  a  man  named  Hugo.  It  threatens  to  kill 
our  unfortunate  friend  very  much  in  the  way 
that  he  was  actually  killed.  It  is  a  wild  letter, 
full  of  taunts;  you  can  see  it  for  yourselves;  but 
it  makes  a  particular  point  of  poor  Hook's  habit 
of  fishing  from  the  island.  Above  all,  the  man 
professes  to  be  writing  from  a  boat.  And,  since 
we  alone  went  across  to  him,"  and  he  smiled  in 
a  rather  ugly  fashion,  "the  crime  must  have  been 
committed  by  a  man  passing  in  a  boat." 

"Why,  dear  me  I"  cried  the  duke,  with  some- 
thing almost  amounting  to  animation.  "Why,  I 
remember  the  man  called  Hugo  quite  well !  He 
was  a  sort  of  body  servant  and  bodyguard  of  Sir 
Isaac.  You  see,  Sir  Isaac  was  in  some  fear  of 
assault.  He  was — he  was  not  very  popular  with 
several  people.  Hugo  was  discharged  after 
141 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

some  row  or  other;  but  I  remember  him  well. 
He  was  a  great  big  Hungarian  fellow  with  great 
mustaches  that  stood  out  on  each  side  of  his 
face." 

A  door  opened  in  the  darkness  of  Harold 
March's  memory,  or,  rather,  oblivion,  and 
showed  a  shining  landscape,  like  that  of  a  lost 
dream.  It  was  rather  a  waterscape  than  a  land- 
scape, a  thing  of  flooded  meadows  and  low  trees 
and  the  dark  archway  of  a  bridge.  And  for  one 
instant  he  saw  again  the  man  with  mustaches 
like  dark  horns  leap  up  on  to  the  bridge  and 
disappear. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  cried.  "Why,  I  met  the 
murderer  this  morning!" 

Home  Fisher  and  Harold  March  had  their 
day  on  the  river,  after  all,  for  the  little  group 
broke  up  when  the  police  arrived.  They  de- 
clared that  the  coincidence  of  March's  evidence 
had  cleared  the  whole  company,  and  clinched  the 
case  against  the  flying  Hugo.  Whether  that 
Hungarian  fugitive  would  ever  be  caught  ap- 
peared to  Home  Fisher  to  be  highly  doubtful; 
nor  can  it  be  pretended  that  he  displayed  any 
very  demoniac  detective  energy  in  the  matter  as 
he  leaned  back  in  the  boat  cushions,  smoking, 
and  watching  the  swaying  reeds  slide  past. 

"It  was  a  very  good  notion  to  hop  up  on  to  the 
bridge,"  he  said.  "An  empty  boat  means  very 
142 


The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 

little ;  he  hasn't  been  seen  to  land  on  either  bank, 
and  he's  walked  off  the  bridge  without  walking 
on  to  it,  so  to  speak.  He's  got  twenty-four 
hours'  start;  his  mustaches  will  disappear,  and 
then  he  will  disappear.  I  think  there  is  every 
hope  of  his  escape." 

"Hope?"  repeated  March,  and  stopped  scull- 
ing for  an  instant. 

"Yes,  hope,"  repeated  the  other.  "To  begin 
with,  I'm  not  going  to  be  exactly  consumed  with 
Corsican  revenge  because  somebody  has  killed 
Hook.  Perhaps  you  may  guess  by  this  time  what 
Hook  was.  A  damned  blood-sucking  blackmailer 
was  that  simple,  strenuous,  self-made  captain  of 
industry.  He  had  secrets  against  nearly  every- 
body; one  against  poor  old  Westmoreland  about 
an  early  marriage  in  Cyprus  that  might  have  put 
the  duchess  in  a  queer  position;  and  one  against 
Harker  about  some  flutter  with  his  client's  money 
when  he  was  a  young  solicitor.  That's  why  they 
went  to  pieces  when  they  found  him  murdered, 
of  course.  They  felt  as  if  they'd  done  it  in  a 
dream.  But  I  admit  I  have  another  reason  for 
not  wanting  our  Hungarian  friend  actually 
hanged  for  the  murder." 

"And  what  is  that?"  asked  his  friend. 

"Only  that  he  didn't  commit  the  murder," 
answered  Fisher. 

Harold  March  laid  down  the  oars  and  let  the 
boat  drift  for  a  moment. 
143 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"Do  you  know,  I  was  half  expecting  some- 
thing like  that,"  he  said.  "It  was  quite  irra- 
tional, but  it  was  hanging  about  in  the  atmos- 
phere, like  thunder  in  the  air." 

"On  the  contrary,  it's  finding  Hugo  guilty 
that's  irrational,"  replied  Fisher.  "Don't  you 
see  that  they're  condemning  him  for  the  very 
reason  for  which  they  acquit  everybody  else? 
Harker  and  Westmoreland  were  silent  because 
they  found  him  murdered,  and  knew  there  were 
papers  that  made  them  look  like  the  murderers. 
Well,  so  did  Hugo  find  him  murdered,  and  so 
did  Hugo  know  there  was  a  paper  that  would 
make  him  look  like  the  murderer.  He  had 
written  it  himself  the  day  before." 

"But  in  that  case,"  said  March,  frowning,  "at 
what  sort  of  unearthly  hour  in  the  morning  was 
the  murder  really  committed?  It  was  barely 
daylight  when  I  met  him  at  the  bridge,  and  that's 
some  way  above  the  island." 

"The  answer  is  very  simple,"  replied  Fisher. 
"The  crime  was  not  committed  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  crime  was  not  committed  on  the 
island." 

March  stared  at  the  shining  water  without 
replying,  but  Fisher  resumed  like  one  who  had 
been  asked  a  question : 

"Every  intelligent  murder  involves  taking  ad- 
vantage of  some  one  uncommon  feature  in  a  com- 
mon situation.  The  feature  here  was  the  fancy 
144 


The  Fad  of  the  Fisherman 

of  old  Hook  for  being  the  first  man  up  every 
morning,  his  fixed  routine  as  an  angler,  and  his 
annoyance  at  being  disturbed.  The  murderer 
strangled  him  in  his  own  house  after  dinner  on 
the  night  before,  carried  his  corpse,  with  all  his 
fishing  tackle,  across  the  stream  in  the  dead  of 
night,  tied  him  to  the  tree,  and  left  him  there 
under  the  stars.  It  was  a  dead  man  who  sat 
fishing  there  all  day.  Then  the  murderer  went 
back  to  the  house,  or,  rather,  to  the  garage,  and 
went  off  in  his  motor  car.  The  murderer  drove 
his  own  motor  car." 

Fisher  glanced  at  his  friend's  face  and  went 
on.  "You  look  horrified,  and  the  thing  is  hor- 
rible. But  other  things  are  horrible,  too.  If 
some  obscure  man  had  been  hag-ridden  by  a 
blackmailer  and  had  his  family  life  ruined,  you 
wouldn't  think  the  murder  of  his  persecutor  the 
most  inexcusable  of  murders.  Is  it  any  worse 
when  a  whole  great  nation  is  set  free  as  well  as 
a  family?  By  this  warning  to  Sweden  we  shall 
probably  prevent  war  and  not  precipitate  it,  and 
save  many  thousand  lives  rather  more  valuable 
than  the  life  of  that  viper.  Oh,  I'm  not  talking 
sophistry  or  seriously  justifying  the  thing,  but 
the  slavery  that  held  him  and  his  country  was  a 
thousand  times  less  justifiable.  If  I'd  really  been 
sharp  I  should  have  guessed  it  from  his  smooth, 
deadly  smiling  at  dinner  that  night.  Do  you 
remember  that  silly  talk  about  how  old  Isaac 
145 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

could  always  play  his  fish?  In  a  pretty  hellish 
sense  he  was  a  fisher  of  men." 

Harold  March  took  the  oars  and  began  to 
row  again. 

"I  remember,"  he  said,  "and  about  how  a 
big  fish  might  break  the  line  and  get  away." 


VI 

THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 

/TsWO  men,  the  one  an  architect  and  the  other 
-*-  an  archaeologist,  met  on  the  steps  of  the 
great  house  at  Prior's  Park;  and  their  host,  Lord 
Bulmer,  in  his  breezy  way,  thought  it  natural  to 
introduce  them.  It  must  be  confessed  that  he 
was  hazy  as  well  as  breezy,  and  had  no  very 
clear  connection  in  his  mind,  beyond  the  sense 
that  an  architect  and  an  archaeologist  begin  with 
the  same  series  of  letters.  The  world  must  re- 
main in  a  reverent  doubt  as  to  whether  he  would, 
on  the  same  principles,  have  presented  a  diplo- 
matist to  a  dipsomaniac  or  a  ratiocinator  to  a 
rat  catcher.  He  was  a  big,  fair,  bull-necked 
young  man,  abounding  in  outward  gestures,  un- 
consciously flapping  his  gloves  and  flourishing 
his  stick. 

"You  two  ought  to  have  something  to  talk 
about,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "Old  buildings  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing;  this  is  rather  an  old  build- 
ing, by  the  way,  though  I  say  it  who  shouldn't. 
I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me  a  moment;  I've  got 
to  go  and  see  about  the  cards  for  this  Christ- 
mas romp  my  sister's  arranging.  We  hope  to 
147 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

see  you  all  there,  of  course.  Juliet  wants 
it  to  be  a  fancy-dress  affair — abbots  and  cru- 
saders and  all  that.  My  ancestors,  I  suppose, 
after  all." 

"I  trust  the  abbot  was  not  an  ancestor,"  said 
the  archaeological  gentleman,  with  a  smile. 

"Only  a  sort  of  great-uncle,  I  imagine,"  an- 
swered the  other,  laughing;  then  his  rather 
rambling  eye  rolled  round  the  ordered  landscape 
in  front  of  the  house;  an  artificial  sheet  of  water 
ornamented  with  an  antiquated  nymph  in  the 
center  and  surrounded  by  a  park  of  tall  trees 
now  gray  and  black  and  frosty,  for  it  was  in 
the  depth  of  a  severe  winter. 

"It's  getting  jolly  cold,"  his  lordship  con- 
tinued. "My  sister  hopes  we  shall  have  some 
skating  as  well  as  dancing." 

"If  the  crusaders  come  in  full  armor,"  said 
the  other,  "you  must  be  careful  not  to  drown 
your  ancestors." 

"Oh,  there's  no  fear  of  that,"  answered  Bul- 
mer;  "this  precious  lake  of  ours  is  not  two  feet 
deep  anywhere."  And  with  one  of  his  flourish- 
ing gestures  he  stuck  his  stick  into  the  water  to 
demonstrate  its  shallowness.  They  could  see  the 
short  end  bent  in  the  water,  so  that  he  seemed 
for  a  moment  to  lean  his  large  weight  on  a  break- 
ing staff. 

"The  worst  you  can  expect  is  to  see  an  abbot 
sit  down  rather  suddenly,"  he  added,  turning 
148 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

away.    "Well,  au  revoir;  I'll  let  you  know  about 
it  later." 

The  archaeologist  and  the  architect  were  left 
on  the  great  stone  steps  smiling  at  each  other; 
but  whatever  their  common  interests,  they  pre- 
sented a  considerable  personal  contrast,  and  the 
fanciful  might  even  have  found  some  contradic- 
tion in  each  considered  individually.  The  for- 
mer, a  Mr.  James  Haddow,  came  from  a  drowsy 
den  in  the  Inns  of  Court,  full  of  leather  and 
parchment,  for  the  law  was  his  profession  and 
history  only  his  hobby;  he  was  indeed,  among 
other  things,  the  solicitor  and  agent  of  the 
Prior's  Park  estate.  But  he  himself  was  far 
from  drowsy  and  seemed  remarkably  wide 
awake,  with  shrewd  and  prominent  blue  eyes, 
and  red  hair  brushed  as  neatly  as  his  very  neat 
costume.  The  latter,  whose  name  was  Leonard 
Crane,  came  straight  from  a  crude  and  almost 
cockney  office  of  builders  and  house  agents  in 
the  neighboring  suburb,  sunning  itself  at  the  end 
of  a  new  row  of  jerry-built  houses  with  plans 
in  very  bright  colors  and  notices  in  very  large 
letters.  But  a  serious  observer,  at  a  second 
glance,  might  have  seen  in  his  eyes  something  of 
that  shining  sleep  that  is  called  vision;  and  his 
yellow  h  lie  not  affectedly  long,  was  un- 

affectedly untidy.     It  was  a  manifest  if  melan- 
choly truth  that  the  architect  was  an  artist.    But 
the  artistic  temperament  was  far  from  explain- 
149 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

ing  him;  there  was  something  else  about  him 
that  was  not  definable,  but  which  some  even  felt 
to  be  dangerous.  Despite  his  dreaminess,  he 
would  sometimes  surprise  his  friends  with  arts 
and  even  sports  apart  from  his  ordinary  life, 
like  memories  of  some  previous  existence,  On 
this  occasion,  nevertheless,  he  hastened  to  dis- 
claim any  authority  on  the  other  man's  hobby. 

"I  mustn't  appear  on  false  pretences,"  he  said, 
with  a  smile.  "I  hardly  even  know  what  an 
archaeologist  is,  except  that  a  rather  rusty  rem- 
nant of  Greek  suggests  that  he  is  a  man  who 
studies  old  things." 

"Yes,"  replied  Haddow,  grimly.  uAn  archae- 
ologist is  a  man  who  studies  old  things  and  finds 
they  are  new." 

Crane  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a  moment 
and  then  smiled  again. 

"Dare  one  suggest,"  he  said,  "that  some  of 
the  things  we  have  been  talking  about  are  among 
the  old  things  that  turn  out  not  to  be  old?" 

His  companion  also  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
and  the  smile  on  his  rugged  face  was  fainter  as 
he  replied,  quietly: 

"The  wall  round  the  park  is  really  old.  The 
one  gate  in  it  is  Gothic,  and  I  cannot  find  any 
trace  of  destruction  or  restoration.  But  the 
house  and  the  estate  generally — well  the  ro- 
mantic ideas  read  into  these  things  are  often 
rather  recent  romances,  things  almost  like 
150 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

fashionable  novels.  For  instance,  the  very  name 
of  this  place,  Prior's  Park,  makes  everybody 
think  of  it  as  a  moonlit  mediaevaLabbey;  I  dare 
say  the  spiritualists  by  this  time  have  discovered 
the  ghost  of  a  monk  there.  But,  according  to 
the  only  authoritative  study  of  the  matter  I  can 
find,  the  place  was  simply  called  Prior's  as  any 
rural  place  is  called  Podger's.  It  was  the  house 
of  a  Mr.  Prior,  a  farmhouse,  probably,  that 
stood  here  at  some  time  or  other  and  was  a  local 
landmark.  Oh,  there  are  a  great  many  ex- 
amples of  the  same  thing,  here  and  everywhere 
else.  This  suburb  of  ours  used  to  be  a  village, 
and  because  some  of  the  people  slurred  the  name 
and  pronounced  it  Holliwell,  many  a  minor  poet 
indulged  in  fancies  about  a  Holy  Well,  with 
spells  and  fairies  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  filling 
the  suburban  drawing-rooms  with  the  Celtic  twi- 
light. Whereas  anyone  acquainted  with  the 
facts  knows  that  'Hollinwall'  simply  means  'the 
hole  in  the  wall,'  and  probably  referred  to  some 
quite  trivial  accident.  That's  what  I  mean  when 
I  say  that  we  don't  so  much  find  old  things  as 
we  find  new  ones." 

Crane  seemed  to  have  grown  somewhat  inat- 
tentive to  the  little  lecture  on  antiquities  and 
novelties,  and  the  cause  of  his  restlessness  was 
soon  apparent,  and  indeed  approaching.  Lord 
Bulmer's  sister,  Juliet  Bray,  was  coming  slowly 
across  the  lawn,  accompanied  by  one  gentleman 
11  151 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

and  followed  by  two  others.  The  young  archi- 
tect was  in  the  illogical  condition  of  mind  in 
which  he  preferred  three  to  one. 

The  man  walking  with  the  lady  was  no  other 
than  the  eminent  Prince  Borodino,  who  was  at 
least  as  famous  as  a  distinguished  diplomatist 
ought  to  be,  in  the  interests  of  what  is  called 
secret  diplomacy.  He  had  been  paying  a  round 
of  visits  at  various  English  country  houses,  and 
exactly  what  he  was  doing  for  diplomacy  at 
Prior's  Park  was  as  much  a  secret  as  any  diplo- 
matist could  desire.  The  obvious  thing  to  say 
of  his  appearance  was  that  he  would  have  been 
extremely  handsome  if  he  had  not  been  entirely 
bald.  But,  indeed,  that  would  itself  be  a  rather 
bald  way  of  putting  it.  Fantastic  as  it  sounds, 
it  would  fit  the  case  better  to  say  that  people 
would  have  been  surprised  to  see  hair  growing 
on  him;  as  surprised  as  if  they  had  found  hair 
growing  on  the  bust  of  a  Roman  emperor.  His 
tall  figure  was  buttoned  up  in  a  tight-waisted 
fashion  that  rather  accentuated  his  potential 
bulk,  and  he  wore  a  red  flower  in  his  buttonhole. 
Of  the  two  men  walking  behind  one  was  also 
bald,  but  in  a  more  partial  and  also  a  more  pre- 
mature fashion,  for  his  drooping  mustache  was 
still  yellow,  and  if  his  eyes  were  somewhat  heavy 
it  was  with  languor  and  not  with  age.  It  was 
Home  Fisher,  and  he  was  talking  as  easily  and 
idly  about  everything  as  he  always  did.  His 
152 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

companion  was  a  more  striking,  arid  even  more 
sinister,  figure,  and  he  had  the  added  importance 
of  being  Lord  Buhner's  oldest  and  most  intimate 
friend.  He  was  generally  known  with  a  severe 
simplicity  as  Mr.  Brain;  but  it  was  understood 
that  he  had  been  a  judge  and  police  official  in 
India,  and  that  he  had  enemies,  who  had  repre- 
sented his  measures  against  crime  as  themselves 
almost  criminal.  He  was  a  brown  skeleton  of  a 
man  with  dark,  deep,  sunken  eyes  and  a  black 
mustache  that  hid  the  meaning  of  his  mouth. 
Though  he  had  the  look  of  one  wasted  by  some 
tropical  disease,  his  movements  were  much  more 
alert  than  those  of  his  lounging  companion. 

"It's  all  settled,"  announced  the  lady,  with 
great  animation,  when  they  came  within  hailing 
distance.  "You've  all  got  to  put  on  masquerade 
things  and  very  likely  skates  as  well,  though 
the  prince  says*  they  don't  go  with  it;  but  we 
don't  care  about  that.  It's  freezing  already,  and 
we  don't  often  get  such  a  chance  in  England." 

"Even  in  India  we  don't  exactly  skate  all  the 
year  round,"  observed  Mr.  Brain. 

"And  even  Italy  is  not  primarily  associated 
with  ice,"  said  the  Italian. 

"Italy  is  primarily  associated  with  ices,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Home  Fisher.  "I  mean  with  ice 
cream  men.  Most  people  in  this  country  imagine 
that  Italy  is  entirely  populated  with  ice  cream 
men  and  organ  grinders.  There  certainly  are 
153 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

a  lot  of  them;  perhaps  they're  an  invading  army 
in  disguise." 

"How  do  you  know  they  are  not  the  secret 
emissaries  of  our  diplomacy?"  asked  the  prince, 
with  a  slightly  scornful  smile.  "An  army  of 
organ  grinders  might  pick  up  hints,  and  their 
monkeys  might  pick  up  all  sort  of  things." 

"The  organs  are  organized  in  fact,"  said  the 
flippant  Mr.  Fisher.  "Well,  I've  known  it  pretty 
cold  before  now  in  Italy  and  even  in  India,  up 
on  the  Himalayan  slopes.  The  ice  on  our  own 
little  round  pond  will  be  quite  cozy  by  com- 
parison." 

Juliet  Bray  was  an  attractive  lady  with  dark 
hair  and  eyebrows  and  dancing  eyes,  and  there 
was  a  geniality  and  even  generosity  in  her  rather 
imperious  ways.  In  most  matters  she  could 
command  her  brother,  though  that  nobleman, 
like  many  other  men  of  vague  ideas,  was  not 
without  a  touch  of  the  bully  when  he  was  at  bay. 
She  could  certainly  command  her  guests,  even 
to  the  extent  of  decking  out  the  most  respectable 
and  reluctant  of  them  with  her  mediaeval  mas- 
querade. And  it  really  seemed  as  if  she  could 
command  the  elements  also,  like  a  witch.  For 
the  weather  steadily  hardened  and  sharpened; 
that  night  the  ice  of  the  lake,  glimmering  in 
the  moonlight,  was  like  a  marble  floor,  and  they 
had  begun  to  dance  and  skate  on  it  before  it 
was  dark. 

154 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

Prior's  Park,  or,  more  properly,  the  surround- 
ing district  of  Holinwall,  was  a  country  seat  that 
had  become  a  suburb;  having  once  had  only  a 
dependent  village  at  its  doors,  it  now  found 
outside  all  its  doors  the  signals  of  the  expansion 
of  London.  Mr.  Haddow,  who  was  engaged  in 
historical  researches  both  in  the  library  and  the 
locality,  could  find  little  assistance  in  the  latter. 
He  had  already  realized,  from  the  documents, 
that  Prior's  Park  had  originally  been  something 
like  Prior's  Farm,  named  after  some  local  figure, 
but  the  new  social  conditions  were  all  against 
his  tracing  the  story  by  its  traditions.  Had  any 
of  the  real  rustics  remained,  he  would  probably 
have  found  some  lingering  legend  of  Mr.  Prior, 
however  remote  he  might  be.  But  the  new 
nomadic  population  of  clerks  and  artisans,  con- 
stantly shifting  their  homes  from  one  suburb  to 
another,  or  their  children  from  one  school  to 
another,  could  have  no  corporate  continuity. 
They  had  all  that  forgetfulness  of  history  that 
goes  everywhere  with  the  extension  of  education. 

Nevertheless,  when  he  came  out  of  the  library 
next  morning  and  saw  the  wintry  trees  standing 
round  the  frozen  pond  like  a  black  forest,  he 
felt  he  might  well  have  been  far  in  the  depths 
of  the  country.  The  old  wall  running  round  the 
park  kept  that  inclosure  itself  still  entirely  rural 
and  romantic,  and  one  could  easily  imagine  that 
the  depths  of  that  dark  forest  faded  away  in- 
i55 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

definitely  into  distant  vales  and  hills.  The  gray 
and  black  and  silver  of  the  wintry  wood  were 
all  the  more  severe  or  somber  as  a  contrast  to 
the  colored  carnival  groups  that  already  stood 
on  and  around  the  frozen  pool.  For  the  house 
party  had  already  flung  themselves  impatiently 
into  fancy  dress,  and  the  lawyer,  with  his  neat 
black  suit  and  red  hair,  was  the  only  modern 
figure  among  them. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  dress  up?"  asked  Juliet, 
indignantly  shaking  at  him  a  horned  and  tower- 
ing blue  headdress  of  the  fourteenth  century 
which  framed  her  face  very  becomingly,  fan- 
tastic as  it  was.  "Everybody  here  has  to  be  in 
the  Middle  Ages.  Even  Mr.  Brain  has  put  on 
a  sort  of  brown  dressing  gown  and  says  he's  a 
monk;  and  Mr.  Fisher  got  hold  of  some  old 
potato  sacks  in  the  kitchen  and  sewed  them  to- 
gether; he's  supposed  to  be  a  monk,  too.  As 
to  the  prince,  he's  perfectly  glorious,  in  great 
crimson  robes  as  a  cardinal.  He  looks  as  if  he 
could  poison  everybody.  You  simply  must  be 
something." 

"I  will  be  something  later  in  the  day,"  he  re- 
plied. "At  present  I  am  nothing  but  an  anti- 
quary and  an  attorney.  I  have  to  see  your 
brother  presently,  about  some  legal  business  and 
also  some  local  investigations  he  asked  me  to 
make.  I  must  look  a  little  like  a  steward  when 
I  give  an  account  of  my  stewardship." 
156 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

"Oh,  but  my  brother  has  dressed  up !"  cried 
the  girl.  "Very  much  so.  No  end,  if  I  may  say 
so.  Why  he's  bearing  down  on  you  now  in  all 
his  glory." 

The  noble  lord  was  indeed  marching  toward 
them  in  a  magnificent  sixteenth-century  costume 
of  purple  and  gold,  with  a  gold-hilted  sword 
and  a  plumed  cap,  and  manners  to  match.  In- 
deed, there  was  something  more  than  his  usual 
expansiveness  of  bodily  action  in  his  appearance 
at  that  moment.  It  almost  seemed,  so  to  speak, 
that  the  plumes  on  his  hat  had  gone  to  his  head. 
He  flapped  his  great,  gold-lined  cloak  like  the 
wings  of  a  fairy  king  in  a  pantomime;  he  even 
drew  his  sword  with  a  flourish  and  waved  it 
about  as  he  did  his  walking  stick.  In  the  light 
of  after  events  there  seemed  to  be  something 
monstrous  and  ominous  about  that  exuberance, 
something  of  the  spirit  that  is  called  fey.  At 
the  time  it  merely  crossed  a  few  people's  minds 
that  he  might  possibly  be  drunk. 

As  he  strode  toward  his  sister  the  first  figure 
he  passed  was  that  of  Leonard  Crane,  clad  in 
Lincoln  green,  with  the  horn  and  baldrick  and 
sword  appropriate  to  Robin  Hood;  for  he  was 
standing  nearest  to  the  lady,  where,  indeed,  he 
might  have  been  found  during  a  disproportionate 
part  of  the  time.  He  had  displayed  one  of  his 
buried  talents  in  the  matter  of  skating,  and  now 
that  the  skating  was  over  seemed  disposed  to 
157 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

prolong  the  partnership.  The  boisterous  Bul- 
mer  playfully  made  a  pass  at  him  with  his  drawn 
sword,  going  forward  with  the  lunge  in  the 
proper  fencing  fashion,  and  making  a  somewhat 
too  familiar  Shakespearean  quotation  about  a 
rodent  and  a  Venetian  coin. 

Probably  in  Crane  also  there  was  a  subdued 
excitement  just  then;  anyhow,  in  one  flash  he 
had  drawn  his  own  sword  and  parried;  and 
then  suddenly,  to  the  surprise  of  everyone, 
Buhner's  weapon  seemed  to  spring  out  of  his 
hand  into  the  air  and  rolled  away  on  the  ring- 
ing ice. 

"Well,  I  never !"  said  the  lady,  as  if  with  jus- 
tifiable indignation.  "You  never  told  me  you 
could  fence,  too." 

Bulmer  put  up  his  sword  with  an  air  rather 
bewildered  than  annoyed,  which  increased  the 
impression  of  something  irresponsible  in  his  mood 
at  the  moment;  then  he  turned  rather  abruptly 
to  his  lawyer,  saying: 

"We  can  settle  up  about  the  estate  after 
dinner;  I've  missed  nearly  all  the  skating  as  it 
is,  and  I  doubt  if  the  ice  will  hold  till  to-morrow 
night.  I  think  I  shall  get  up  early  and  have  a 
spin  by  myself." 

"You  won't  be  disturbed  with  my  company," 

said  Home  Fisher,  in  his  weary  fashion.     "If  I 

have  to  begin  the  day  with  ice,  in  the  American 

fashion,  I  prefer  it  in  smaller  quantities.    But  no 

158 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

early  hours  for  me  in  December.     The  early 
bird  catches  the  cold." 

"Oh,  I  sha'n't  die  of  catching  a  cold,"  an- 
swered Bulmer,  and  laughed. 

A  considerable  group  of  the  skating  party  had 
consisted  of  the  guests  staying  at  the  house,  and 
the  rest  had  tailed  off  in  twos  and  threes  some 
time  before  most  of  the  guests  began  to  retire 
for  the  night.  Neighbors,  always  invited  to 
Prior's  Park  on  such  occasions,  went  back  to 
their  own  houses  in  motors  or  on  foot;  the  legal 
and  archaeological  gentleman  had  returned  to  the 
Inns  of  Court  by  a  late  train,  to  get  a  paper  called 
for  during  his  consultation  with  his  client;  and 
most  of  the  other  guests  were  drifting  and  linger- 
ing at  various  stages  on  their  way  up  to  bed. 
Home  Fisher,  as  if  to  deprive  himself  of  any 
excuse  for  his  refusal  of  early  rising,  had  been 
the  first  to  retire  to  his  room;  but,  sleepy  as  he 
looked,  he  could  not  sleep.  He  had  picked  up 
from  a  table  the  book  of  antiquarian  topography, 
in  which  Haddow  had  found  his  first  hints  about 
the  origin  of  the  local  name,  and,  being  a  man 
with  a  quiet  and  quaint  capacity  for  being  in- 
terested in  anything,  he  began  to  read  it  steadily, 
making  notes  now  and  then  of  details  on  which 
his  previous  reading  left  him  with  a  certain  doubt 
about  his  present  conclusions.  His  room  was  the 
one  nearest  to  the  lake  in  the  center  of  the  woods, 
159 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

and  was  therefore  the  quietest,  and  none  of  the 
last  echoes  of  the  evening's  festivity  could  reach 
him  He  had  followed  carefully  the  argument 
which  established  the  derivation  from  Mr. 
Prior's  farm  and  the  hole  in  the  wall,  and  dis- 
posed of  any  fashionable  fancy  about  monks 
and  magic  wells,  when  he  began  to  be  conscious 
of  a  noise  audible  in  the  frozen  silence  of  the 
night.  It  was  not  a  particularly  loud  noise,  but 
it  seemed  to  consist  of  a  series  of  thuds  or  heavy 
blows,  such  as  might  be  struck  on  a  wooden  door 
by  a  man  seeking  to  enter.  They  were  followed 
by  something  like  a  faint  creak  or  crack,  as  if 
the  obstacle  had  either  been  opened  or  had  given 
way.  He  opened  his  own  bedroom  door  and 
listened,  but  as  he  heard  talk  and  laughter  all 
over  the  lower  floors,  he  had  no  reason  to  fear 
that  a  summons  would  be  neglected  or  the  house 
left  without  protection.  He  went  to  his  open 
window,  looking  out  over  the  frozen  pond  and 
the  moonlit  statue  in  the  middle  of  their  circle 
of  darkling  woods,  and  listened  again.  But  si- 
lence had  returned  to  that  silent  place,  and,  after 
straining  his  ears  for  a  considerable  time,  he 
could  hear  nothing  but  the  solitary  hoot  of  a 
distant  departing  train.  Then  he  reminded  him- 
self how  many  nameless  noises  can  be  heard 
by  the  wakeful  during  the  most  ordinary  night, 
and  shrugging  his  shoulders,  went  wearily  to 
bed. 

160 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

He  awoke  suddenly  and  sat  up  in  bed  with 
his  ears  filled,  as  with  thunder,  with  the  throb- 
bing echoes  of  a  rending  cry.  He  remained  rigid 
for  a  moment,  and  then  sprang  out  of  bed,  throw- 
ing on  the  loose  gown  of  sacking  he  had  worn 
all  day.  He  went  first  to  the  window,  which 
was  open,  but  covered  with  a  thick  curtain,  so 
that  his  room  was  still  completely  dark ;  but  when 
he  tossed  the  curtain  aside  and  put  his  head  out, 
he  saw  that  a  gray  and  silver  daybreak  had  al- 
ready appeared  behind  the  black  woods  that  sur- 
rounded the  little  lake,  and  that  was  all  that  he 
did  see.  Though  the  sound  had  certainly  come 
in  through  the  open  window  from  this  direction, 
the  whole  scene  was  still  and  empty  under  the 
morning  light  as  under  the  moonlight.  Then  the 
long,  rather  lackadaisical  hand  he  had  laid  on  a 
window  sill  gripped  it  tighter,  as  if  to  master  a 
tremor,  and  his  peering  blue  eyes  grew  bleak 
with  fear.  It  may  seem  that  his  emotion  was 
exaggerated  and  needless,  considering  the  effort 
of  common  sense  by  which  he  had  conquered  his 
nervousness  about  the  noise  on  the  previous  night. 
But  that  had  been  a  very  different  sort  of  noise. 
It  might  have  been  made  by  half  a  hundred 
things,  from  the  chopping  of  wood  to  the 
breaking  of  bottles.  There  was  only  one 
thing  in  nature  from  which  could  come  the 
sound  that  echoed  through  the  dark  house 
at  daybreak.  It  was  the  awful  articulate  voice 
161 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

of  man;  and  it  was  something  worse,  for  he 
knew  what  man. 

He  knew  also  that  it  had  been  a  shout  for 
help.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  heard  the 
very  word;  but  the  word,  short  as  it  was,  had 
been  swallowed  up,  as  if  the  man  had  been  stifled 
or  snatched  away  even  as  he  spoke.  Only  the 
mocking  reverberations  of  it  remained  even  in 
his  memory,  but  he  had  no  doubt  of  the  original 
voice.  He  had  no  doubt  that  the  great  bull's 
voice  of  Francis  Bray,  Baron  Bulmer,  had  been 
heard  for  the  last  time  between  the  darkness 
and  the  lifting  dawn. 

How  long  he  stood  there  he  never  knew,  but 
he  was  startled  into  life  by  the  first  living  thing 
that  he  saw  stirring  in  that  half-frozen  land- 
scape. Along  the  path  beside  the  lake,  and  imme- 
diately under  his  window,  a  figure  was  walking 
slowly  and  softly,  but  with  great  composure — a 
stately  figure  in  robes  of  a  splendid  scarlet;  it  was 
the  Italian  prince,  still  in  his  cardinal's  costume. 
Most  of  the  company  had  indeed  lived  in  their 
costumes  for  the  last  day  or  two,  and  Fisher  him- 
self had  assumed  his  frock  of  sacking  as  a  con- 
venient dressing  gown ;  but  there  seemed,  never- 
theless, something  unusually  finished  and  formal, 
in  the  way  of  an  early  bird,  about  this  magnificent 
red  cockatoo.  It  was  as  if  the  early  bird  had 
been  up  all  night. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  called,  sharply,  lean- 
162 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

ing  out  of  the  window,  and  the  Italian  turned  up 
his  great  yellow  face  like  a  mask  of  brass. 

"We  had  better  discuss  it  downstairs,"  said 
Prince  Borodino. 

Fisher  ran  downstairs,  and  encountered  the 
great,  red-robed  figure  entering  the  doorway  and 
blocking  the  entrance  with  his  bulk. 

"Did  you  hear  that  cry?"  demanded  Fisher. 

"I  heard  a  noise  and  I  came  out,"  answered 
the  diplomatist,  and  his  face  was  too  dark  in 
the  shadow  for  its  expression  to  be  read. 

"It  was  Buhner's  voice,"  insisted  Fisher.  "I'll 
swear  it  was  Bulmer's  voice." 

"Did  you  know  him  well?"  asked  the  other. 

The  question  seemed  irrelevant,  though  it  was 
not  illogical,  and  Fisher  could  only  answer  in  a 
random  fashion  that  he  knew  Lord  Bulmer  only 
slightly. 

"Nobody  seems  to  have  known  him  well," 
continued  the  Italian,  in  level  tones.  "Nobody 
except  that  man  Brain.  Brain  is  rather  older 
than  Bulmer,  but  I  fancy  they  shared  a  good 
many  secrets." 

Fisher  moved  abruptly,  as  if  waking  from  a 
momentary  trance,  and  said,  in  a  new  and  more 
vigorous  voice,  "But  look  here,  hadn't  we  better 
get  outside  and  see  if  anything  has  happened." 

"The  ice  seems  to  be  thawing,"  said  the  other, 
almost  with  indifference. 

When  they  emerged  from  the  house,  dark 
163 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

stains  and  stars  in  the  gray  field  of  ice  did  indeed 
indicate  that  the  frost  was  breaking  up,  as  their 
host  had  prophesied  the  day  before,  and  the  very 
memory  of  yesterday  brought  back  the  mystery 
of  to-day. 

"He  knew  there  would  be  a  thaw,"  observed 
the  prince.  "He  went  out  skating  quite  early  on 
purpose.  Did  he  call  out  because  he  landed  in 
the  water,  do  you  think?" 

Fisher  looked  puzzled.  "Buhner  was  the  last 
man  to  bellow  like  that  because  he  got  his  boots 
wet.  And  that's  all  he  could  do  here ;  the  water 
would  hardly  come  up  to  the  calf  of  a  man  of 
his  size.  You  can  see  the  flat  weeds  on  the  floor 
of  the  lake,  as  if  it  were  through  a  thin  pane  of 
glass.  No,  if  Bulmer  had  only  broken  the  ice  he 
wouldn't  have  said  much  at  the  moment,  though 
possibly  a  good  deal  afterward.  We  should  have 
found  him  stamping  and  damning  up  and  down 
this  path,  and  calling  for  clean  boots." 

"Let  us  hope  we  shall  find  him  as  happily  em- 
ployed," remarked  the  diplomatist.  "In  that 
case  the  voice  must  have  come  out  of  the 
wood." 

"I'll  swear  it  didn't  come  out  of  the  house," 
said  Fisher;  and  the  two  disappeared  together 
into  the  twilight  of  wintry  trees. 

The  plantation  stood  dark  against  the  fiery 
colors  of  sunrise,  a  black  fringe  having  that 
feathery  appearance  which  makes  trees  when 
164 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

they  are  bare  the  very  reverse  of  rugged.  Hours 
and  hours  afterward,  when  the  same  dense,  but 
delicate,  margin  was  dark  against  the  greenish 
colors  opposite  the  sunset,  the  search  thus  be- 
gun at  sunrise  had  not  come  to  an  end.  By  suc- 
cessive stages,  and  to  slowly  gathering  groups 
of  the  company,  it  became  apparent  that  the  most 
extraordinary  of  all  gaps  had  appeared  in  the 
party;  the  guests  could  find  no  trace  of  their 
host  anywhere.  The  servants  reported  that  his 
bed  had  been  slept  in  and  his  skates  and  his  fancy 
costume  were  gone,  as  if  he  had  risen  early  for 
the  purpose  he  had  himself  avowed.  But  from 
the  top  of  the  house  to  the  bottom,  from  the 
walls  round  the  park  to  the  pond  in  the  center, 
there  was  no  trace  of  Lord  Bulmer,  dead  or  alive. 
Home  Fisher  realized  that  a  chilling  premo- 
nition had  already  prevented  him  from  expecting 
to  find  the  man  alive.  But  his  bald  brow  was 
wrinkled  over  an  entirely  new  and  unnatural 
problem,  in  not  finding  the  man  at  all. 

He  considered  the  possibility  of  Bulmer  hav- 
ing gone  off  of  his  own  accord,  for  some  reason; 
but  after  fully  weighing  it  he  finally  dismissed  it. 
It  was  inconsistent  with  the  unmistakable  voice 
heard  at  daybreak,  and  with  many  other  prac- 
tical obstacles.  There  was  only  one  gateway  in 
the  ancient  and  lofty  wall  round  the  small  park; 
the  lodge  keeper  kept  it  locked  till  late  in  the 
morning,  and  the  lodge  keeper  had  seen  no  one 
165 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

pass.  Fisher  was  fairly  sure  that  he  had  before 
him  a  mathematical  problem  in  an  inclosed  space. 
His  instinct  had  been  from  the  first  so  attuned  to 
the  tragedy  that  it  would  have  been  almost  a 
relief  to  him  to  find  the  corpse.  He  would  have 
been  grieved,  but  not  horrified,  to  come  on  the 
nobleman's  body  dangling  from  one  of  his  own 
trees  as  from  a  gibbet,  or  floating  in  his  own  pool 
like  a  pallid  weed.  What  horrified  him  was  to 
find  nothing. 

He  soon  become  conscious  that  he  was  not 
alone  even  in  his  most  individual  and  isolated 
experiments.  He  often  found  a  figure  following 
him  like  his  shadow,  in  silent  and  almost  secret 
clearings  in  the  plantation  or  outlying  nooks  and 
corners  of  the  old  wall.  The  dark-mustached 
mouth  was  as  mute  as  the  deep  eyes  were  mobile, 
darting  incessantly  hither  and  thither,  but  it  was 
clear  that  Brain  of  the  Indian  police  had  taken 
up  the  trail  like  an  old  hunter  after  a  tiger.  See- 
ing that  he  was  the  only  personal  friend  of  the 
vanished  man,  this  seemed  natural  enough,  and 
Fisher  resolved  to  deal  frankly  with  him. 

"This  silence  is  rather  a  social  strain,"  he 
said.  "May  I  break  the  ice  by  talking  about  the 
weather? — which,  by  the  way,  has  already 
broken  the  ice.  I  know  that  breaking  the  ice 
might  be  a  rather  melancholy  metaphor  in  this 
case." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  replied  Brain,  shortly.  "I 
1 66 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

don't  fancy  the  ice  had  much  to  do  with  it.  I 
don't  see  how  it  could." 

"What  would  you  propose  doing?"  asked 
Fisher. 

"Well,  weVe  sent  for  the  authorities,  of 
course,  but  I  hope  to  find  something  out  before 
they  come,"  replied  the  Anglo-Indian.  UI  can't 
say  I  have  much  hope  from  police  methods  in  this 
country.  Too  much  red  tape,  habeas  corpus  and 
that  sort  of  thing.  What  we  want  is  to  see  that 
nobody  bolts;  the  nearest  we  could  get  to  it 
would  be  to  collect  the  company  and  count  them, 
so  to  speak.  Nobody's  left  lately,  except  that 
lawyer  who  was  poking  about  for  antiquities." 

"Oh,  he's  out  of  it;  he  left  last  night,"  an- 
swered the  other.  "Eight  hours  after  Bulmer's 
chauffeur  saw  his  lawyer  off  by  the  train  I  heard 
Bulmer's  own  voice  as  plain  as  I  hear  yours  now." 

"I  suppose  you  don't  believe  in  spirits?"  said 
the  man  from  India.  After  a  pause  he  added: 
"There's  somebody  else  I  should  like  to  find, 
before  we  go  after  a  fellow  with  an  alibi  in  the 
Inner  Temple.  What's  become  of  that  fellow 
in  green — the  architect  dressed  up  as  a  forester? 
I  haven't  seem  him  about." 

Mr.  Brain  managed  to  secure  his  assembly 
of  all  the  distracted  company  before  the  arrival 
of  the  police.  But  when  he  first  began  to  com- 
ment once  more  on  the  young  architect's  delay 
in  putting  in  an  appearance,  he  found  himself  in 
12  167 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

the  presence  of  a  minor  mystery,  and  a  psycho- 
logical development  of  an  entirely  unexpected 
kind. 

Juliet  Bray  had  confronted  the  catastrophe  of 
her  brother's  disappearance  with  a  somber 
stoicism  in  which  there  was,  perhaps,  more 
paralysis  than  pain;  but  when  the  other  question 
came  to  the  surface  she  was  both  agitated  and 
angry. 

"We  don't  want  to  jump  to  any  conclusions 
about  anybody,"  Brain  was  saying  in  his  staccato 
style.  "But  we  should  like  to  know  a  little  more 
about  Mr.  Crane.  Nobody  seems  to  know  much 
about  him,  or  where  he  comes  from.  And  it 
seems  a  sort  of  coincidence  that  yesterday  he 
actually  crossed  swords  with  poor  Bulmer,  and 
could  have  stuck  him,  too,  since  he  showed  him- 
self the  better  swordsman.  Of  course,  that  may 
be  an  accident  and  couldn't  possibly  be  called  a 
case  against  anybody;  but  then  we  haven't  the 
means  to  make  a  real  case  against  anybody.  Till 
the  police  come  we  are  only  a  pack  of  very 
amateur  sleuthhounds." 

"And  I  think  you're  a  pack  of  snobs,"  said 
Juliet.  "Because  Mr.  Crane  is  a  genius  who's 
made  his  own  way,  you  try  to  suggest  he's  a 
murderer  without  daring  to  say  so.  Because  he 
wore  a  toy  sword  and  happened  to  know  how 
to  use  it,  you  want  us  to  believe  he  used  it  like 
a  bloodthirsty  maniac  for  no  reason  in  the  world. 
1 68 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

And  because  he  could  have  hit  my  brother  and 
didn't,  you  deduce  that  he  did.  That's  the  sort 
of  way  you  argue.  And  as  for  his  having  dis- 
appeared, you're  wrong  in  that  as  you  are  in 
everything  else,  for  here  he  comes." 

And,  indeed,  the  green  figure  of  the  fictitious 
Robin  Hood  slowly  detached  itself  from  the  gray 
background  of  the  trees,  and  came  toward  them 
as  she  spoke. 

He  approached  the  group  slowly,  but  with 
composure;  but  he  was  decidedly  pale,  and  the 
eyes  of  Brain  and  Fisher  had  already  taken  in 
one  detail  of  the  green-clad  figure  more  clearly 
than  all  the  rest.  The  horn  still  swung  from 
his  baldrick,  but  the  sword  was  gone. 

Rather  to  the  surprise  of  the  company,  Brain 
did  not  follow  up  the  question  thus  suggested; 
but,  while  retaining  an  air  of  leading  the 
inquiry,  had  also  an  appearance  of  changing  the 
subject. 

"Now  we're  all  assembled,"  he  observed, 
quietly,  "there  is  a  question  I  want  to  ask  to 
begin  with.  Did  anybody  here  actually  see  Lord 
Bulmer  this  morning?" 

Leonard  Crane  turned  his  pale  face  round  the 
circle  of  faces  till  he  came  to  Juliet's;  then  he 
compressed  his  lips  a  little  and  said: 

"Yes,  I  saw  him." 

"Was  he  alive  and  well?"  asked  Brain,  quickly. 
"How  was  he  dressed?" 
169 


'The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"He  appeared  exceedingly  well,"  replied 
Crane,  with  a  curious  intonation.  "He  was 
dressed  as  he  was  yesterday,  in  that  purple  cos- 
tume copied  from  the  portrait  of  his  ancestor  in 
the  sixteenth  century.  He  had  his  skates  in  his 
hand." 

"And  his  sword  at  his  side,  I  suppose,"  added 
the  questioner.  "Where  is  your  own  sword,  Mr. 
Crane?" 

"I  threw  it  away." 

In  the  singular  silence  that  ensued,  the  train 
of  thought  in  many  minds  became  involuntarily 
a  series  of  colored  pictures. 

They  had  grown  used  to  their  fanciful  gar- 
ments looking  more  gay  and  gorgeous  against  the 
dark  gray  and  streaky  silver  of  the  forest,  so 
that  the  moving  figures  glowed  like  stained-glass 
saints  walking.  The  effect  had  been  more  fitting 
because  so  many  of  them  had  idly  parodied 
pontifical  or  monastic  dress.  But  the  most  ar- 
resting attitude  that  remained  in  their  memories 
had  been  anything  but  merely  monastic;  that  of 
the  moment  when  the  figure  in  bright  green  and 
the  other  in  vivid  violet  had  for  a  moment  made 
a  silver  cross  of  their  crossing  swords.  Even 
when  it  was  a  jest  it  had  been  something  of  a 
drama ;  and  it  was  a  strange  and  sinister  thought 
that  in  the  gray  daybreak  the  same  figures  in  the 
same  posture  might  have  been  repeated  as  a 
tragedy. 

170 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

"Did  you  quarrel  with  him?"  asked  Brain, 
suddenly. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  immovable  man  in  green. 
"Or  he  quarreled  with  me." 

"Why  did  he  quarrel  with  you?"  asked  the 
investigator ;  and  Leonard  Crane  made  no  reply. 

Home  Fisher,  curiously  enough,  had  only 
given  half  his  attention  to  this  crucial  cross-ex- 
amination. His  heavy-lidded  eyes  had  languidly 
followed  the  figure  of  Prince  Borodino,  who  at 
this  stage  had  strolled  away  toward  the  fringe 
of  the  wood;  and,  after  a  pause,  as  of  medi- 
tation, had  disappeared  into  the  darkness  of  the 
trees. 

He  was  recalled  from  his  irrelevance  by  the 
voice  of  Juliet  Bray,  which  rang  out  with  an 
altogether  new  note  of  decision : 

"If  that  is  the  difficulty,  it  had  best  be  cleared 
up.  I  am  engaged  to  Mr.  Crane,  and  when  we 
told  my  brother  he  did  not  approve  of  it;  that 
is  all." 

Neither  Brain  nor  Fisher  exhibited  any  sur- 
prise, but  the  former  added,  quietly: 

"Except,  I  suppose,  that  He  and  your  brother 
went  off  into  the  wood  to  discuss  it,  where  Mr. 
Crane  mislaid  his  sword,  not  to  mention  his  com- 
panion." 

"And  may  I  ask,"  inquired  Crane,  with  a  cer- 
tain flicker  of  mockery  passing  over  his  pallid 
features,  "what  I  am  supposed  to  have  done  with 
171 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

cither  of  them?  Let  us  adopt  the  cheerful  thesis 
that  I  am  a  murderer;  it  has  yet  to  be  shown 
that  I  am  a  magician.  If  I  ran  your  unfortunate 
friend  through  the  body,  what  did  I  do  with  the 
body?  Did  I  have  it  carried  away  by  seven  fly- 
ing dragons,  or  was  it  merely  a  trifling  matter 
of  turning  it  into  a  milk-white  hind?" 

"It  is  no  occasion  for  sneering,"  said  the 
Anglo-Indian  judge,  with  abrupt  authority.  "It 
doesn't  make  it  look  better  for  you  that  you  can 
joke  about  the  loss." 

Fisher's  dreamy,  and  even  dreary,  eye  was 
still  on  the  edge  of  the  wood  behind,  and  he  be- 
came conscious  of  masses  of  dark  red,  like  a 
stormy  sunset  cloud,  glowing  through  the  gray 
network  of  the  thin  trees,  and  the  prince  in  his 
cardinal's  robes  re-emerged  on  to  the  pathway. 
Brain  had  had  half  a  notion  that  the  prince  might 
have  gone  to  look  for  the  lost  rapier.  But  when 
he  reappeared  he  was  carrying  in  his  hand,  not 
a  sword,  but  an  ax. 

The  incongruity  between  the  masquerade  and 
the  mystery  had  created  a  curious  psychological 
atmosphere.  At  first  they  had  all  felt  horribly 
ashamed  at  being  caught  in  the  foolish  disguises 
of  a  festival,  by  an  event  that  had  only  too  much 
the  character  of  a  funeral.  Many  of  them  would 
have  already  gone  back  and  dressed  in  clothes 
that  were  more  funereal  or  at  least  more  formal. 
But  somehow  at  the  moment  this  seemed  like  a 
172 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

second  masquerade,  more  artificial  and  frivolous 
than  the  first.  And  as  they  reconciled  themselves 
to  their  ridiculous  trappings,  a  curious  sensation 
had  come  over  some  of  them,  notably  over  the 
more  sensitive,  like  Crane  and  Fisher  and  Juliet, 
but  in  some  degree  over  everybody  except  the 
practical  Mr.  Brain.  It  was  almost  as  if  they 
were  the  ghosts  of  their  own  ancestors  haunting 
that  dark  wood  and  dismal  lake,  and  playing 
some  old  part  that  they  only  half  remembered. 
The  movements  of  those  colored  figures  seemed 
to  mean  something  that  had  been  settled  long 
before,  like  a  silent  heraldry.  Acts,  attitudes,  ex- 
ternal objects,  were  accepted  as  an  allegory  even 
without  the  key;  and  they  knew  when  a  crisis 
had  come,  when  they  did  not  know  what  it  was. 
And  somehow  they  knew  subconsciously  that  the 
whole  tale  had  taken  a  new  and  terrible  turn, 
when  they  saw  the  prince  stand  in  the  gap  of  the 
gaunt  trees,  in  his  robes  of  angry  crimson  and 
with  his  lowering  face  of  bronze,  bearing  in  his 
hand  a  new  shape  of  death.  They  could  not  have 
named  a  reason,  but  the  two  swords  seemed  in- 
deed to  have  become  toy  swords  and  the  whole 
tale  of  them  broken  and  tossed  away  like  a 
toy.  Borodino  looked  like  the  Old  World  heads- 
man, clad  in  terrible  red,  and  carrying  the  ax 
for  the  execution  of  the  criminal.  And  the 
criminal  was  not  Crane. 

Mr.  Brain  of  the  Indian  police  was  glaring 
173 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

at  the  new  object,  and  it  was  a  moment  or  two 
before  he  spoke,  harshly  and  almost  hoarsely. 

uWhat  are  you  doing  with  that?"  he  asked. 
"Seems  to  be  a  woodman's  chopper." 

"A  natural  association  of  ideas,"  observed 
Home  Fisher.  "If  you  meet  a  cat  in  a  wood  you 
think  it's  a  wildcat,  though  ft  may  have  just 
strolled  from  the  drawing-room  sofa.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  I  happen  to  know  that  is  not  the 
woodman's  chopper.  It's  the  kitchen  chopper, 
or  meat  ax,  or  something  like  that,  that  some- 
body has  thrown  away  in  the  wood.  I  saw  it  in 
the  kitchen  myself  when  I  was  getting  the  potato 
sacks  with  which  I  reconstructed  a  mediaeval 
hermit." 

"All  the  same,  it  is  not  without  interest,"  re- 
marked the  prince,  holding  out  the  instrument 
to  Fisher,  who  took  it  and  examined  it  carefully. 
"A  butcher's  cleaver  that  has  done  butcher's 
work." 

"It  was  certainly  the  instrument  of  the  crime," 
assented  Fisher,  in  a  low  voice. 

Brain  was  staring  at  the  dull  blue  gleam  of 
the  ax  head  with  fierce  and  fascinated  eyes.  "I 
don't  understand  you,"  he  said.  "There  is  no — 
there  are  no  marks  on  it." 

"It  has  shed  no  blood,"  answered  Fisher,  "but 
for  all  that  it  has  committed  a  crime.  This  is 
as  near  as  the  criminal  came  to  the  crime  when 
he  committed  it." 

174 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"He  was  not  there  when  he  did  it,"  explained 
Fisher.  "It's  a  poor  sort  of  murderer  who  can't 
murder  people  when  he  isn't  there." 

"You  seem  to  be  talking  merely  for  the  sake 
of  mystification,"  said  Brain.  "If  you  have  any 
practical  advice  to  give  you  might  as  well  make 
it  intelligible." 

"The  only  practical  advice  I  can  suggest,"  said 
Fisher,  thoughtfully,  "is  a  little  research  into 
local  topography  and  nomenclature.  They  say 
there  used  to  be  a  Mr.  Prior,  who  had  a  farm 
in  this  neighborhood.  I  think  some  details  about 
the  domestic  life  of  the  late  Mr.  Prior  would 
throw  a  light  on  this  terrible  business." 

"And  you  have  nothing  more  immediate  than 
your  topography  to  offer,"  said  Brain,  with  a 
sneer,  "to  help  me  avenge  my  friend?" 

"Well,"  said  Fisher,  "I  should  find  out  the 
truth  about  the  Hole  in  the  Wall." 

That  night,  at  the  close  of  a  stormy  twilight 
and  under  a  strong  west  wind  that  followed  the 
breaking  of  the  frost,  Leonard  Crane  was  wend- 
ing his  way  in  a  wild  rotatory  walk  round  and 
round  the  high,  continuous  wall  that  inclosed 
the  little  wood.  He  was  driven  by  a  desperate 
idea  of  solving  for  himself  the  riddle  that  had 
clouded  his  reputation  and  already  even  threat- 
ened his  liberty.  The  police  authorities,  now  in 
175 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

charge  of  the  inquiry,  had  not  arrested  him,  but 
he  knew  well  enough  that  if  he  tried  to  move  far 
afield  he  would  be  instantly  arrested.  Home 
Fisher's  fragmentary  hints,  though  he  had  re- 
fused to  expand  them  as  yet,  had  stirred  the 
artistic  temperament  of  the  architect  to  a  sort  of 
wild  analysis,  and  he  was  resolved  to  read  the 
hieroglyph  upside  down  and  every  way  until  it 
made  sense.  If  it  was  something  connected  with 
a  hole  in  the  wall  he  would  find  the  hole  in  the 
wall ;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  unable  to 
find  the  faintest  crack  in  the  wall.  His  profes- 
sional knowledge  told  him  that  the  masonry  was 
all  of  one  workmanship  and  one  date,  and,  ex- 
cept for  the  regular  entrance,  which  threw  no 
light  on  the  mystery,  he  found  nothing  suggest- 
ing any  sort  of  hiding  place  or  means  of  escape. 
Walking  a  narrow  path  between  the  winding 
wall  and  the  wild  eastward  bend  and  sweep  of 
the  gray  and  feathery  trees,  seeing  shifting 
gleams  of  a  lost  sunset  winking  almost  like 
lightning  as  the  clouds  of  tempest  scudded 
across  the  sky  and  mingling  with  the  first  faint 
blue  light  from  a  slowly  strengthened  moon  be- 
hind him,  he  began  to  feel  his  head  going  round 
as  his  heels  were  going  round  and  round  the 
blind  recurrent  barrier.  He  had  thoughts  on  the 
border  of  thought;  fancies  about  a  fourth  di- 
mension which  was  itself  a  hole  to  hide  anything, 
of  seeing  everything  from  a  new  angle  out  of  a 
176 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

new  window  in  the  senses;  or  of  some  mystical 
light  and  transparency,  like  the  new  rays  of 
chemistry,  in  which  he  could  see  Buhner's  body, 
horrible  and  glaring,  floating  in  a  lurid  halo  over 
the  woods  and  the  wall.  He  was  haunted  also 
with  the  hint,  which  somehow  seemed  to  be 
equally  horrifying,  that  it  all  had  something  to 
do  with  Mr.  Prior.  There  seemed  even  to  be 
something  creepy  in  the  fact  that  he  was  always 
respectfully  referred  to  as  Mr.  Prior,  and  that 
it  was  in  the  domestic  life  of  the  dead  farmer 
that  he  had  been  bidden  to  seek  the  seed  of  these 
dreadful  things.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had 
found  that  no  local  inquiries  had  revealed  any- 
thing at  all  about  the  Prior  family. 

The  moonlight  had  broadened  and  brightened, 
the  wind  had  driven  off  the  clouds  and  itself  died 
fitfully  away,  when  he  came  round  again  to  the 
artificial  lake  in  front  of  the  house.  For  some 
reason  it  looked  a  very  artificial  lake;  indeed, 
the  whole  scene  was  like  a  classical  landscape 
with  a  touch  of  Watteau ;  the  Palladian  facade  of 
the  house  pale  in  the  moon,  and  the  same  silver 
touching  the  very  pagan  and  naked  marble  nymph 
in  the  middle  of  the  pond.  Rather  to  his  sur- 
prise, he  found  another  figure  there  beside  the 
statue,  sitting  almost  equally  motionless;  and  the 
same  silver  pencil  traced  the  wrinkled  brow  and 
patient  face  of  Home  Fisher,  still  dressed  as  a 
hermit  and  apparently  practicing  something  of 
177 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

the  solitude  of  a  hermit.  Nevertheless,  he 
looked  up  at  Leonard  Crane  and  smiled,  almost 
as  if  he  had  expected  him. 

"Look  here,"  said  Crane,  planting  himself  in 
front  of  him,  "can  you  tell  me  anything  about 
this  business?" 

"I  shall  soon  have  to  tell  everybody  everything 
about  it,"  replied  Fisher,  ubut  I've  no  objection 
to  telling  you  something  first.  But,  to  begin 
with,  will  you  tell  me  something?  What  really 
happened  when  you  met  Bulmer  this  morning? 
You  did  throw  away  your  sword,  but  you  didn't 
kill  him." 

"I  didn't  kill  him  because  I  threw  away 
my  sword,"  said  the  other.  "I  did  it  on 
purpose — or  I'm  not  sure  what  might  have 
happened." 

After  a  pause  he  went  on,  quietly:  "The  late 
Lord  Bulmer  was  a  very  breezy  gentleman,  ex- 
tremely breezy.  He  was  very  genial  with  his 
inferiors,  and  would  have  his  lawyer  and  his 
architect  staying  in  his  house  for  all  sorts  of 
holidays  and  amusements.  But  there  was  an- 
other side  to  him,  which  they  found  out  when 
they  tried  to  be  his  equals.  When  I  told  him 
that  his  sister  and  I  were  engaged,  something 
happened  which  I  simply  can't  and  won't  de- 
scribe. It  seemed  to  me  like  some  monstrous 
upheaval  of  madness.  But  I  suppose  the  truth 
is  painfully  simple.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  the 
178 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

coarseness  of  a  gentleman.  And  it  is  the  most 
horrible  thing  in  humanity." 

"I  know,"  said  Fisher.  "The  Renaissance 
nobles  of  the  Tudor  time  were  like  that." 

"It  is  odd  that  you  should  say  that,"  Crane 
went  on.  "For  while  we  were  talking  there 
came  on  me  a  curious  feeling  that  we  were  re- 
peating some  scene  of  the  past,  and  that  I  was 
really  some  outlaw,  found  in  the  woods  like  Robin 
Hood,  and  that  he  had  really  stepped  in  all  his 
plumes  and  purple  out  of  the  picture  frame  of 
the  ancestral  portrait.  Anyhow,  he  was  the  man 
in  possession,  and  he  neither  feared  God  nor 
regarded  man.  I  defied  him,  of  course,  and 
walked  away.  I  might  really  have  killed  him  if 
I  had  not  walked  away." 

"Yes,"  said  Fisher,  nodding,  "his  ancestor 
was  in  possession  and  he  was  in  possession,  and 
this  is  the  end  of  the  story.    It  all  fits  in." 

"Fits  in  with  what?"  cried  his  companion,  with 
sudden  impatience.  "I  can't  make  head  or  tail 
of  it.  You  tell  me  to  look  for  the  secret  in  the 
hole  in  the  wall,  but  I  can't  find  any  hole  in  the 
wall." 

"There  isn't  any,"  said  Fisher.  "That's  the 
secret."  After  reflecting  a  moment,  he  added: 
"Unless  you  call  it  a  hole  in  the  wall  of  the  world. 
Look  here ;  I'll  tell  you  if  you  like,  but  I'm  afraid 
it  involves  an  introduction.  You've  got  to  under- 
stand one  of  the  tricks  of  the  modern  mind,  a 
179 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

tendency  that  most  people  obey  without  noticing 
it.  In  the  village  or  suburb  outside  there's  an  inn 
with  the  sign  of  St.  George  and  the  Dragon. 
Now  suppose  I  went  about  telling  everybody 
that  this  was  only  a  corruption  of  King  George 
and  the  Dragoon.  Scores  of  people  would  be- 
lieve it,  without  any  inquiry,  from  a  vague  feel- 
ing that  it's  probable  because  it's  prosaic.  It 
turns  something  romantic  and  legendary  into 
something  recent  and  ordinary.  And  that  some- 
how makes  it  sound  rational,  though  it  is  unsup- 
ported by  reason.  Of  course  some  people  would 
have  the  sense  to  remember  having  seen  St. 
George  in  old  Italian  pictures  and  French  ro- 
mances, but  a  good  many  wouldn't  think  about 
it  at  all.  They  would  just  swallow  the  skepticism 
because  it  was  skepticism.  Modern  intelligence 
won't  accept  anything  on  authority.  But  it  will 
accept  anything  without  authority.  That's  ex- 
actly what  has  happened  here. 

"When  some  critic  or  other  chose  to  say  that 
Prior's  Park  was  not  a  priory,  but  was  named 
after  some  quite  modern  man  named  Prior,  no- 
body really  tested  the  theory  at  all.  It  never 
occurred  to  anybody  repeating  the  story  to  ask 
if  there  was  any  Mr.  Prior,  if  anybody  had  ever 
seen  him  or  heard  of  him.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
it  was  a  priory,'  and  shared  the  fate  of  most 
priories — that  is,  the  Tudor  gentleman  with  the 
plumes  simply  stole  it  by  brute  force  and  turned 
1 80 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

it  into  his  own  private  house ;  he  did  worse  things, 
as  you  shall  hear.  But  the  point  here  is  that 
this  is  how  the  trick  works,  and  the  trick  works 
in  the  same  way  in  the  other  part  of  the  tale. 
The  name  of  this  district  is  printed  Holinwall 
in  all  the  best  maps  produced  by  the  scholars; 
and  they  allude  lightly,  not  without  a  smile,  to 
the  fact  that  it  was  pronounced  Holiwell  by  the 
most  ignorant  and  old-fashioned  of  the  poor. 
But  it  is  spelled  wrong  and  pronounced  right." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  asked  Crane,  quickly, 
"that  there  really  was  a  well?" 

"There  is  a  well,"  said  Fisher,  "and  the  truth 
lies  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

As  he  spoke  he  stretched  out  his  hand  and 
pointed  toward  the  sheet  of  water  in  front  of 
him. 

"The  well  is  under  that  water  somewhere," 
he  said,  "and  this  is  not  the  first  tragedy  con- 
nected with  it.  The  founder  of  this  house  did 
something  which  his  fellow  ruffians  very  seldom 
did;  something  that  had  to  be  hushed  up  even 
in  the  anarchy  of  the  pillage  of  the  monasteries. 
The  well  was  connected  with  the  miracles  of 
some  saint,  and  the  last  prior  that  guarded  it 
was  something  like  a  saint  himself;  certainly  he 
was  something  very  like  a  martyr.  He  defied 
the  new  owner  and  dared  him  to  pollute  the  place, 
till  the  noble,  in  a  fury,  stabbed  him  and  flung 
his  body  into  the  well,  whither,  after  four  hun- 
181 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

dred  years,  it  has  been  followed  by  an  heir  of  the 
usurper,  clad  in  the  same  purple  and  walking  the 
world  with  the  same  pride." 

"But  how  did  it  happen,"  demanded  Crane, 
"that  for  the  first  time  Buhner  fell  in  at  that 
particular  spot?" 

"Because  the  ice  was  only  loosened  at  that 
particular  spot,  by  the  only  man  who  knew  it," 
answered  Home  Fisher.  "It  was  cracked  de- 
liberately, with  the  kitchen  chopper,  at  that 
special  place ;  and  I  myself  heard  the  hammering 
and  did  not  understand  it.  The  place  had  been 
covered  with  an  artificial  lake,  if  only  because 
the  whole  truth  had  to  be  covered  with  an  arti- 
ficial legend.  But  don't  you  see  that  it  is  ex- 
actly what  those  pagan  nobles  would  have  done, 
to  desecrate  it  with  a  sort  of  heathen  goddess, 
as  the  Roman  Emperor  built  a  temple  to  Venus 
on  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  But  the  truth  could  still 
be  traced  out,  by  any  scholarly  man  determined 
to  trace  it.  And  this  man  was  determined  to 
trace  it." 

"What  man?"  asked  the  other,  with  a  shadow 
of  the  answer  in  his  mind. 

"The  only  man  who  has  an  alibi,"  replied 
Fisher.  "James  Haddow,  the  antiquarian  law- 
yer, left  the  night  before  the  fatality,  but  he 
left  that  black  star  of  death  on  the  ice.  He  left 
abruptly,  having  previously  proposed  to  stay; 
probably,  I  think,  after  an  ugly  scene  with  Bul- 
182 


The  Hole  In  the  Wall 

mer,  at  their  legal  interview.  As  you  know  your- 
self, Bulmer  could  make  a  man  feel  pretty  mur- 
derous, and  I  rather  fancy  the  lawyer  had  him- 
self irregularities  to  confess,  and  was  in  danger 
of  exposure  by  his  client.  But  it's  my  reading 
of  human  nature  that  a  man  will  cheat  in  his 
trade,  but  not  in  his  hobby.  Haddow  may  have 
been  a  dishonest  lawyer,  but  he  couldn't  help  be- 
ing an  honest  antiquary.  When  he  got  on  the 
track  of  the  truth  about  the  Holy  Well  he  had 
to  follow  it  up;  he  was  not  to  be  bamboozled 
with  newspaper  anecdotes  about  Mr.  Prior  and 
a  hole  in  the  wall ;  he  found  out  everything,  even 
to  the  exact  location  of  the  well,  and  he  was  re- 
warded, if  being  a  successful  assassin  can  be  re- 
garded as  a  reward." 

"And  how  did  you  get  on  the  track  of  all  this 
hidden  history?"  asked  the  young  architect. 

A  cloud  came  across  the  brow  of  Home 
Fisher.  "I  knew  only  too  much  about  it  al- 
ready," he  said,  "and,  after  all,  it's  shameful 
for  me  to  be  speaking  lightly  of  poor  Bulmer, 
who  has  paid  his  penalty;  but  the  rest  of  us 
haven't.  I  dare  say  every  cigar  I  smoke  and  every 
liqueur  I  drink  comes  directly  or  indirectly  from 
the  harrying  of  the  holy  places  and  the  persecu- 
tion of  the  poor.  After  all,  it  needs  very  little 
poking  about  in  the  past  to  find  that  hole  in  the 
wall,  that  great  breach  in  the  defenses  of  Eng- 
lish history.  It  lies  just  under  the  surface  of  a 
13  183 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

thin  sheet  of  sham  information  and  instruction, 
just  as  the  black  and  blood-stained  well  lies  just 
under  that  floor  of  shallow  water  and  flat  weeds. 
Oh,  the  ice  is  thin,  but  it  bears;  it  is  strong 
enough  to  support  us  when  we  dress  up  as  monks 
and  dance  on  it,  in  mockery  of  the  dear,  quaint 
old  Middle  Ages.  They  told  me  I  must  put  on 
fancy  dress;  so  I  did  put  on  fancy  dress,  accord- 
ing to  my  own  taste  and  fancy.  I  put  on  the 
only  costume  I  think  fit  for  a  man  who  has  in- 
herited the  position  of  a  gentleman,  and  yet  has 
not  entirely  lost  the  feelings  of  one." 

In  answer  to  a  look  of  inquiry,  he  rose  with  a 
sweeping  and  downward  gesture. 

"Sackcloth,"  he  said;  "and  I  would  wear  the 
ashes  as  well  if  they  would  stay  on  my  bald 
head." 


VII 

THE  TEMPLE  OF  SILENCE 

TTAROLD  MARCH  and  the  few  who  culti- 
*  *  vated  the  friendship  of  Home  Fisher,  espe- 
cially if  they  saw  something  of  him  in  his  own 
social  setting,  were  conscious  of  a  certain  solitude 
in  his  very  sociability.  They  seemed  to  be  al- 
ways meeting  his  relations  and  never  meeting  his 
family.  Perhaps  it  would  be  truer  to  say  that 
they  saw  much  of  his  family  and  nothing  of  his 
home.  His  cousins  and  connections  ramified  like 
a  labyrinth  all  over  the  governing  class  of  Great 
Britain,  and  he  seemed  to  be  on  good,  or  at  least 
on  good-humored,  terms  with  most  of  them. 
For  Home  Fisher  was  remarkable  for  a  curious 
impersonal  information  and  interest  touching  all 
sorts  of  topics,  so  that  one  could  sometimes  fancy 
that  his  culture,  like  his  colorless,  fair  mustache 
and  pale,  drooping  features,  had  the  neutral 
nature  of  a  chameleon.  Anyhow,  he  could  al- 
ways get  on  with  viceroys  and  Cabinet  Ministers 
and  all  the  great  men  responsible  for  great  de- 
partments, and  talk  to  each  of  them  on  his  own 
subject,  on  the  branch  of  study  with  which  he  was 
most  seriously  concerned.  Thus  he  could  con- 
185 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

verse  with  the  Minister  for  War  about  silk- 
worms, with  the  Minister  of  Education  about 
detective  stories,  with  the  Minister  of  Labor 
about  Limoges  enamel,  and  with  the  Minister  of 
Missions  and  Moral  Progress  (if  that  be  his 
correct  title)  about  the  pantomime  boys  of  the 
last  four  decades.  And  as  the  first  was  his  first 
cousin,  the  second  his  second  cousin,  the  third 
his  brother-in-law,  and  the  fourth  his  uncle  by 
marriage,  this  conversational  versatility  certainly 
served  in  one  sense  to  create  a  happy  family.  But 
March  never  seemed  to  get  a  glimpse  of  that 
domestic  interior  to  which  men  of  the  middle 
classes  are  accustomed  in  their  friendships,  and 
which  is  indeed  the  foundation  of  friendship  and 
love  and  everything  else  in  any  sane  and  stable 
society.  He  wondered  whether  Home  Fisher 
was  both  an  orphan  and  an  only  child. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  something  like  a  start 
that  he  found  that  Fisher  had  a  brother,  much 
more  prosperous  and  powerful  than  himself, 
though  hardly,  March  thought,  so  entertaining. 
Sir  Henry  Harland  Fisher,  with  half  the  alpha- 
bet after  his  name,  was  something  at  the  Foreign 
Office  far  more  tremendous  than  the  Foreign  Sec- 
retary. Apparently,  it  ran  in  the  family,  after 
all;  for  it  seemed  there  was  another  brother, 
Ashton  Fisher,  in  India,  rather  more  tremendous 
than  the  Viceroy.  Sir  Henry  Fisher  was  a 
heavier,  but  handsomer  edition  of  his  brother, 
1 86 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

with  a  brow  equally  bald,  but  much  more  smooth. 
He  was  very  courteous,  but  a  shade  patronizing, 
not  only  to  March,  but  even,  as  March  fancied, 
to  Home  Fisher  as  well.  The  latter  gentleman, 
who  had  many  intuitions  about  the  half-formed 
thoughts  of  others,  glanced  at  the  topic  himself 
as  they  came  away  from  the  great  house  in 
Berkeley  Square. 

"Why,  don't  you  know,"  he  observed  quietly, 
"that  I  am  the  fool  of  the  family?" 

"It  must  be  a  clever  family,"  said  Harold 
March,  with  a  smile. 

"Very  gracefully  expressed,"  replied  Fisher; 
"that  is  the  best  of  having  a  literary  training. 
Well,  perhaps  it  is  an  exaggeration  to  say  I  am 
the  fool  of  the  family.  It's  enough  to  say  I  am 
the  failure  of  the  family." 

"It  seems  queer  to  me  that  you  should  fail 
especially,"  remarked  the  journalist.  "As  they 
say  in  the  examinations,  what  did  you  fail  in?" 

"Politics,"  replied  his  friend.  "I  stood  for 
Parliament  when  I  was  quite  a  young  man  and 
got  in  by  an  enormous  majority,  with  loud  cheers 
and  chairing  round  the  town.  Since  then,  of 
course,  I've  been  rather  under  a  cloud." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  understand  the  'of 
course,'  "  answered  March,  laughing. 

"That  part  of  it  isn't  worth  understanding," 
said  Fisher.  "But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  old  chap, 
the  other  part  of  it  was  rather  odd  and  interest- 
187 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

ing.  Quite  a  detective  story  in  its  way,  as  well 
as  the  first  lesson  I  had  in  what  modern  politics 
are  made  of.  If  you  like,  I'll  tell  you  all  about 
it."  And  the  following,  recast  in  a  less  allusive 
and  conversational  manner,  is  the  story  that  he 
told. 

Nobody  privileged  of  late  years  to  meet  Sir 
Henry  Harland  Fisher  would  believe  that  he  had 
ever  been  called  Harry.  But,  indeed,  he  had 
been  boyish  enough  when  a  boy,  and  that  serenity 
which  shone  on  him  through  life,  and  which  now 
took  the  form  of  gravity,  had  once  taken  the 
form  of  gayety.  His  friends  would  have  said 
that  he  was  all  the  more  ripe  in  his  maturity  for 
having  been  young  in  his  youth.  His  enemies 
would  have  said  that  he  was  still  light  minded, 
but  no  longer  light  hearted.  But  in  any  case, 
the  whole  of  the  story  Home  Fisher  had  to  tell 
arose  out  of  flie  accident  which  had  made  young 
Harry  Fisher  private  secretary  to  Lord  Saltoun. 
Hence  his  later  connection  with  the  Foreign 
Office,  which  had,  indeed,  come  to  him  as  a  sort 
of  legacy  from  his  lordship  when  that  great 
man  was  the  power  behind  the  throne.  This  is 
not  the  place  to  say  much  about  Saltoun,  little 
as  was  known  of  him  and  much  as  there  was 
worth  knowing.  England  has  had  at  least  three 
or  four  such  secret  statesmen.  An  aristocratic 
polity  produces  every  now  and  then  an  aristocrat 
1 88 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

who  is  also  an  accident,  a  man  of  intellectual  in- 
dependence and  insight,  a  Napoleon  born  in  the 
purple.  His  vast  work  was  mostly  invisible, 
and  very  little  could  be  got  out  of  him  in 
private  life  except  a  crusty  and  rather  cynical 
sense  of  humor.  But  it  was  certainly  the  accident 
of  his  presence  at  a  family  dinner  of  the  Fishers, 
and  the  unexpected  opinion  he  expressed,  which 
turned  what  might  have  been  a  dinner-table  joke 
into  a  sort  of  small  sensational  novel. 

Save  for  Lord  Saltoun,  it  was  a  family  party 
of  Fishers,  for  the  only  other  distinguished 
stranger  had  just  departed  after  dinner,  leav- 
ing the  rest  to  their  coffee  and  cigars.  This  had 
been  a  figure  of  some  interest — a  young  Cam- 
bridge man  named  Eric  Hughes  who  was  the 
rising  hope  of  the  party  of  Reform,  to  which  the 
Fisher  family,  along  with  their  friend  Saltoun, 
had  long  been  at  least  formally  attached.  The 
personality  of  Hughes  was  substantially  summed 
up  in  the  fact  that  he  talked  eloquently  and  ear- 
nestly through  the  whole  dinner,  but  left  imme- 
diately after  to  be  in  time  for  an  appointment. 
All  his  actions  had  something  at  once  ambitious 
and  conscientious;  he  drank  no  wine,  but  was 
slightly  intoxicated  with  words.  And  his  face  and 
phrases  were  on  the  front  page  of  all  the  news- 
papers just  then,  because  he  was  contesting  the 
safe  seat  of  Sir  Francis  Verner  in  the  great  by- 
election  in  the  west.  Everybody  was  talking 
189 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

about  the  powerful  speech  against  squirarchy 
which  he  had  just  delivered;  even  in  the  Fisher 
circle  everybody  talked  about  it  except  Home 
Fisher  himself  who  sat  in  a  corner,  lowering 
over  the  fire. 

"We  jolly  well  have  to  thank  him  for  putting 
some  new  life  into  the  old  party,"  Ashton  Fisher 
was  saying.  "This  campaign  against  the  old 
squires  just  hits  the  degree  of  democracy  there 
is  in  this  county.  This  act  for  extending  county 
council  control  is  practically  his  bill;  so  you  may 
say  he's  in  the  government  even  before  he's  in 
the  House." 

"One's  easier  than  the  other,"  said  Harry, 
carelessly.  "I  bet  the  squire's  a  bigger  pot  than 
the  county  council  in  that  county.  Verner  is 
pretty  well  rooted;  all  these  rural  places  are 
what  you  call  reactionary.  Damning  aristocrats 
won't  alter  it." 

"He  damns  them  rather  well,"  observed  Ash- 
ton. "We  never  had  a  better  meeting  than  the 
one  in  Barkington,  which  generally  goes  Con- 
stitutional. And  when  he  said,  'Sir  Francis  may 
boast  of  blue  blood;  let  us  show  we  have  red 
blood,'  and  went  on  to  talk  about  manhood  and 
liberty,  the  room  simply  rose  at  him." 

"Speaks  very  well,"  said  Lord  Saltoun,  gruffly, 
making  his  only  contribution  to  the  conversation 
so  far. 

Then  the  almost  equally  silent  Home  Fisher 
190 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

suddenly  spoke,  without  taking  his  brooding  eyes 
off  the  fire. 

"What  I  can't  understand,"  he  said,  "is  why 
nobody  is  ever  slanged  for  the  real  reason." 

"Hullo!"  remarked  Harry,  humorously,  "you 
beginning  to  take  notice?" 

"Well,  take  Verner,"  continued  Home  Fisher. 
"If  we  want  to  attack  Verner,  why  not  attack 
him?  Why  compliment  him  on  being  a  romantic 
reactionary  aristocrat?  Who  is  Verner?  Where 
does  he  come  from?  His  name  sounds  old,  but 
I  never  heard  of  it  before,  as  the  man  said  of 
the  Crucifixion.  Why  talk  about  his  blue  blood? 
His  blood  may  be  gamboge  yellow  with  green 
spots,  for  all  anybody  knows.  All  we  know  is 
that  the  old  squire,  Hawker,  somehow  ran 
through  his  money  (and  his  second  wife's,  I 
suppose,  for  she  was  rich  enough),  and  sold  the 
estate  to  a  man  named  Verner.  What  did  he 
make  his  money  in?    Oil?    Army  contracts?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Saltoun,  looking  at  him 
thoughtfully. 

"First  thing  I  ever  knew  you  didn't  know," 
cried  the  exuberant  Harry. 

"And  there's  more,  besides,"  went  on  Home 
Fisher,  who  seemed  to  have  suddenly  found  his 
tongue.  "If  we  want  country  people  to  vote  for 
us,  why  don't  we  get  somebody  with  some  notion 
about  the  country?  We  don't  talk  to  people  in 
Threadneedle  Street  about  nothing  but  turnips 
191 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

and  pigsties.  Why  do  we  talk  to  people  in 
Somerset  about  nothing  but  slums  and  socialism? 
Why  don't  we  give  the  squire's  land  to  the 
squire's  tenants,  instead  of  dragging  in  the 
county  council?" 

"Three  acres  and  a  cow,"  cried  Harry,  emit- 
ting what  the  Parliamentary  reports  call  an  iron- 
ical cheer. 

"Yes,"  replied  his  brother,  stubbornly.  "Don't 
you  think  agricultural  laborers  would  rather  have 
three  acres  and  a  cow  than  three  acres  of  printed 
forms  and  a  committee  ?  Why  doesn't  somebody 
start  a  yeoman  party  in  politics,  appealing  to  the 
old  traditions  of  the  small  landowner?  And 
why  don't  they  attack  men  like  Verner  for  what 
they  are,  which  is  something  about  as  old  and 
traditional  as  an  American  oil  trust?" 

"You'd  better  lead  the  yeoman  party  your- 
self," laughed  Harry.  "Don't  you  think  it 
would  be  a  joke,  Lord  Saltoun,  to  see  my 
brother  and  his  merry  men,  with  their  bows  and 
bills,  marching  down  to  Somerset  all  in  Lincoln 
green  instead  of  Lincoln  and  Bennet  hats?" 

"No,"  answered  Old  Saltoun,  "I  don't  think 
it  would  be  a  joke.  I  think  it  would  be  an  exceed- 
ingly serious  and  sensible  idea." 

"Well,   I'm  jiggered!"  cried  Harry  Fisher, 
staring  at  him.    "I  said  just  now  it  was  the  first 
fact  you  didn't  know,  and  I  should  say  this  is 
the  first  joke  you  didn't  see." 
192 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

"I've  seen  a  good  many  things  in  my  time," 
said  the  old  man,  in  his  rather  sour  fashion. 
"I've  told  a  good  many  lies  in  my  time,  too,  and 
perhaps  I've  got  rather  sick  of  them.  But  there 
are  lies  and  lies,  for  all  that.  Gentlemen  used 
to  lie  just  as  schoolboys  lie,  because  they  hung 
together  and  partly  to  help  one  another  out. 
But  I'm  damned  if  I  can  see  why  we  should  lie 
for  these  cosmopolitan  cads  who  only  help  them- 
selves. They're  not  backing  us  up  any  more; 
they're  simply  crowding  us  out.  If  a  man  like 
your  brother  likes  to  go  into  Parliament  as  a 
yeoman  or  a  gentleman  or  a  Jacobite  or  an 
Ancient  Briton,  I  should  say  it  would  be  a  jolly 
good  thing." 

In  the  rather  startled  silence  that  followed 
Home  Fisher  sprang  to  his  feet  and  all  his 
dreary  manner  dropped  off  him. 

"I'm  ready  to  do  it  to-morrow,"  he  cried.  "I 
suppose  none  of  you  fellows  would  back  me  up." 

Then  Harry  Fisher  showed  the  finer  side  of 
his  impetuosity.  He  made  a  sudden  movement 
as  if  to  shake  hands. 

"You're  a  sport,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  back  you 
up,  if  nobody  else  will.  But  we  can  all  back 
you  up,  can't  we?  I  see  what  Lord  Saltoun 
means,  and,  of  course,  he's  right.  He's  always 
right." 

"So  I  will  go  down  to  Somerset,"  said  Home 
Fisher. 

193 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"Yes,  it  is  on  the  way  to  Westminster,"  said 
Lord  Saltoun,  with  a  smile. 

And  so  it  happened  that  Home  Fisher  arrived 
some  days  later  at  the  little  station  of  a  rather 
remote  market  town  in  the  west,  accompanied 
by  a  light  suitcase  and  a  lively  brother.  It  must 
not  be  supposed,  however,  that  the  brother's 
cheerful  tone  consisted  entirely  of  chaff.  He 
supported  the  new  candidate  with  hope  as  well 
as  hilarity;  and  at  the  back  of  his  boisterous 
partnership  there  was  an  increasing  sympathy 
and  encouragement.  Harry  Fisher  had  always 
had  an  affection  for  his  more  quiet  and  eccentric 
brother,  and  was  now  coming  more  and  more  to 
have  a  respect  for  him.  As  the  campaign  pro- 
ceeded the  respect  increased  to  ardent  admira- 
tion. For  Harry  was  still  young,  and  could  feel 
the  sort  of  enthusiasm  for  his  captain  in  elec- 
tioneering that  a  schoolboy  can  feel  for  his  cap- 
tain in  cricket. 

Nor  was  the  admiration  undeserved.  As  the 
new  three-cornered  contest  developed  it  became 
apparent  to  others  besides  his  devoted  kinsman 
that  there  was  more  in  Home  Fisher  than  had 
ever  met  the  eye.  It  was  clear  that  his  out- 
break by  the  family  fireside  had  been  but  the 
culmination  of  a  long  course  of  brooding  and 
studying  on  the  question.  The  talent  he  re- 
tained through  life  for  studying  his  subject,  and 
even  somebody's  else's  subject,  had  long  been 
194 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

concentrated  on  this  idea  of  championing  a  new 
peasantry  against  a  new  plutocracy.  He  spoke 
to  a  crowd  with  eloquence  and  replied  to  an 
individual  with  humor,  two  political  arts  that 
seemed  to  come  to  him  naturally.  He  certainly 
knew  much  more  about  rural  problems  than 
either  Hughes,  the  Reform  candidate,  or  Verner, 
the  Constitutional  candidate.  And  he  probed 
those  problems  with  a  human  curiosity,  and  went 
below  the  surface  in  a  way  that  neither  of  them 
dreamed  of  doing.  He  soon  became  the  voice 
of  popular  feelings  that  are  never  found  in  the 
popular  press.  New  angles  of  criticism,  argu- 
ments that  had  never  before  been  uttered  by  an 
educated  voice,  tests  and  comparisons  that  had 
been  made  only  in  dialect  by  men  drinking  in 
the  little  local  public  houses,  crafts  half  for- 
gotten that  had  come  down  by  sign  of  hand 
and  tongue  from  remote  ages  when  their  fathers 
were  free — all  this  created  a  curious  and  double 
excitement.  It  startled  the  well  informed  by 
being  a  new  and  fantastic  idea  they  had  never 
encountered.  It  startled  the  ignorant  by  being 
an  old  and  familiar  idea  they  never  thought  to 
have  seen  revived.  Men  saw  things  in  a  new 
light,  and  knew  not  even  whether  it  was  the 
sunset  or  the  dawn. 

Practical  grievances  were  there  to  make  the 
movement  formidable.     As  Fisher  went  to  and 
fro  among  the  cottages  and  country  inns,  it  was 
195 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

borne  in  on  him  without  difficulty  that  Sir  Fran- 
cis Verner  was  a  very  bad  landlord.  Nor  was 
the. story  of  his  acquisition  of  the  land  any  more 
ancient  and  dignified  than  he  had  supposed;  the 
story  was  well  known  in  the  county  and  in  most 
respects  was  obvious  enough.  Hawker,  the  old 
squire,  had  been  a  loose,  unsatisfactory  sort  of 
person,  had  been  on  bad  terms  with  his  first 
wife  (who  died,  as  some  said,  of  neglect),  and 
had  ,  then  married  a  flashy  South  American, 
jMWp|M^^^^H^  But  he  must  have 
worked  his  way  through  jftK0tfej|if&4%  with 
marvelous  rapidity,  for  he  had  been  compelled 
to  sell  the  estate  to  Verner  and  had  gone  to  live 
in  South  America,  possibly  on  his  wife's  estates. 
But  Fisher  noticed  that  the  laxity  of  the  old 
squire  was  far  less  hated  than  the  efficiency  of 
the  new  squire.  Verner's  history  seemed  to  be 
full  of  smart  bargains  and  financial  flutters  that 
left  other  people  short  of  money  and  temper. 
But  though  he  heard  a  great  deal  about  Verner, 
there  was  one  thing  that  continually  eluded  him; 
something  that  nobody  knew,  that  even  Saltoun 
had  not  known.  He  could  not  find  out  how 
Verner  had  originally  made  his  money. 

"He  must  have  kept  it  specially  dark,"  said 
Home  Fisher  to  himself.  "It  must  be  some- 
thing he's  really  ashamed  of.  Hang  it  all!  what 
is  a  man  ashamed  of  nowadays?" 

And  as  he  pondered  on  the  possibilities  they 
196 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

grew  darker  and  more  distorted  in  his  mind;  he 
thought  vaguely  of  things  remote  and  repulsive,, 
strange  forms  of  slavery  or  sorcery,  and  then  of 
ugly  things  yet  more  unnatural  but  nearer  home. 
The  figure  of  Verner  seemed  to  be  blackened 
and  transfigured  in  his  imagination,  and  to  stand 
against  varied  backgrounds  and  strange  skies. 

As  he  strode  up  a  village  street,  brooding 
thus,  his  eyes  encountered  a  complete  contrast 
in  the  face  of  his  other  rival,  the  Reform  candi- 
date. Eric  Hughes,  with  his  blown  blond  hair 
and  eager  undergraduate  face,  was  just  getting 
into  his  motor  car  and  saying  a  few  final  words 
to  his  agent,  a  sturdy,  grizzled  man  named 
Gryce.  Eric  Hughes  waved  his  hand  in  a 
friendly  fashion ;  but  Gryce  eyed  him  with  some 
hostility.  Eric  Hughes  was  a  young  man  with 
genuine  political  enthusiasms,  but  he  knew  that 
political  opponents  are  people  with  whom  one 
may  have  to  dine  any  day.  But  Mr.  Gryce  was 
a  grim  little  local  Radical,  a  champion  of  the 
chapel,  and  one  of  those  happy  people  whose 
work  is  also  their  hobby.  He  turned  his  back 
as  the  motor  car  drove  away,  and  walked  briskly 
up  the  sunlit  high  street  of  the  little  town, 
whistling,  with  political  papers  sticking  out  of 
his  pocket. 

Fisher  looked  pensively  after  the  resolute  fig- 
ure for  a  moment,  and  then,  as  if  by  an  impulse, 
began  to  follow  it.  Through  the  busy  market 
197 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

place,  amid  the  baskets  and  barrows  of  market 
day,  under  the  painted  wooden  sign  of  the  Green 
Dragon,  up  a  dark  side  entry,  under  an  arch, 
and  through  a  tangle  of  crooked  cobbled  streets 
the  two  threaded  their  way,  the  square,  strutting 
figure  in  front  and  the  lean,  lounging  figure  be- 
hind him,  like  his  shadow  in  the  sunshine.  At 
length  they  came  to  a  brown  brick  house  with  a 
brass  plate,  on  which  was  Mr.  Gryce's  name,  and 
that  individual  turned  and  beheld  his  pursuer 
with  a  stare. 

"Could  I  have  a  word  with  you,  sir?"  asked 
Home  Fisher,  politely.  The  agent  stared  still 
more,  but  assented  civilly,  and  led  the  other  into 
an  office  littered  with  leaflets  and  hung  all  round 
with  highly  colored  posters  which  linked  the 
name  of  Hughes  with  all  the  higher  interests  of 
humanity. 

"Mr.  Home  Fisher,  I  believe,"  said  Mr. 
Gryce.  "Much  honored  by  the  call,  of  course. 
Can't  pretend  to  congratulate  you  on  entering 
the  contest,  I'm  afraid;  you  won't  expect  that. 
Here  we've  been  keeping  the  old  flag  flying  for 
freedom  and  reform,  and  you  come  in  and  break 
the  battle  line." 

For  Mr.  Elijah  Gryce  abounded  in  military 
metaphors  and  in  denunciations  of  militarism. 
He  was  a  square-jawed,  blunt-featured  man  with 
a  pugnacious  cock  of  the  eyebrow.  He  had  been 
pickled  in  the  politics  of  that  countryside  from 
198 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

boyhood,  he  knew  everybody's  secrets,  and  elec- 
tioneering was  the  romance  of  his  life. 

"I  suppose  you  think  I'm  devoured  with  am- 
bition," said  Home  Fisher,  in  his  rather  listless 
voice,  "aiming  at  a  dictatorship  and  all  that. 
Well,  I  think  I  can  clear  myself  of  the  charge 
of  mere  selfish  ambition.  I  only  want  certain 
things  done.  I  don't  want  to  do  them.  I  very 
seldom  want  to  do  anything.  And  I've  come 
here  to  say  that  I'm  quite  willing  to  retire  from 
the  contest  if  you  can  convince  me  that  we  really 
want  to  do  the  same  thing." 

The  agent  of  the  Reform  party  looked  at 
him  with  an  odd  and  slightly  puzzled  expression, 
and  before  he  could  reply,  Fisher  went  on  in  the 
same  level  tones: 

"You'd  hardly  believe  it,  but  I  keep  a  con- 
science concealed  about  me;  and  I  am  in  doubt 
about  several  things.  For  instance,  we  both 
want  to  turn  Verner  out  of  Parliament,  but  what 
weapon  are  we  to  use  ?  I've  heard  a  lot  of  gossip 
against  him,  but  is  it  right  to  act  on  mere  gossip  ? 
Just  as  I  want  to  be  fair  to  you,  so  I  want  to  be 
fair  to  him.  If  some  of  the  things  I've  heard  are 
true  he  ought  to  be  turned  out  of  Parliament  and 
every  other  club  in  London.  But  I  don't  want  to 
turn  him  out  of  Parliament  if  they  aren't  true." 

At  this  point  the  light  of  battle  sprang  into 
Mr.  Gryce's  eyes  and  he  became  voluble,  not  to 
say  violent.  He,  at  any  rate,  had  no  doubt  that 
14  199 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

the  stories  were  true;  he  could  testify,  to  his  own 
knowledge,  that  they  were  true.  Verner  was 
not  only  a  hard  landlord,  but  a  mean  landlord, 
a  robber  as  well  as  a  rackrenter;  any  gentleman 
would  be  justified  in  hounding  him  out.  He  had 
cheated  old  Wilkins  out  of  his  freehold  by  a 
trick  fit  for  a  pickpocket;  he  had  driven  old 
Mother  Biddle  to  the  workhouse;  he  had 
stretched  the  law  against  Long  Adam,  the 
poacher,  till  all  the  magistrates  were  ashamed 
of  him. 

"So  if  you'll  serve  under  the  old  banner,"  con- 
cluded Mr.  Gryce,  more  genially,  uand  turn  out 
a  swindling  tyrant  like  that,  I'm  sure  you'll  never 
regret  it." 

"And  if  that  is  the  truth,"  said  Home  Fisher, 
"are  you  going  to  tell  it?" 

"What  do  you  mean?  Tell  the  truth?"  de- 
manded Gryce. 

"I  mean  you  are  going  to  tell  the  truth  as  you 
have  just  told  it,"  replied  Fisher.  "You  are 
going  to  placard  this  town  with  the  wickedness 
done  to  old  Wilkins.  You  are  going  to  fill  the 
newspapers  with  the  infamous  story  of  Mrs. 
Biddle.  You  are  going  to  denounce  Verner  from 
a  public  platform,  naming  him  for  what  he  did 
and  naming  the  poacher  he  did  it  to.  And  you're 
going  to  find  out  by  what  trade  this  man  made 
the  money  with  which  he  bought  the  estate;  and 
when  you  know  the  truth,  as  I  said  before,  of 
200 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

course  you  are  going  to  tell  it.  Upon  those  terms 
I  come  under  the  old  flag,  as  you  call  it,  and  haul 
down  my  little  pennon." 

The  agent  was  eying  him  with  a  curious  ex- 
pression, surly  but  not  entirely  unsympathetic. 
"Well,"  he  said,  slowly,  "you  have  to  do  these 
things  in  a  regular  way,  you  know,  or  people 
don't  understand.  I've  had  a  lot  of  experience,, 
and  I'm  afraid  what  you  say  wouldn't  do. 
People  understand  slanging  squires  in  a  general 
way,  but  those  personalities  aren't  considered 
fair  play.    Looks  like  hitting  below  the  belt." 

"Old  Wilkins  hasn't  got  a  belt,  I  suppose," 
replied  Home  Fisher.  "Verner  can  hit  him  any- 
how, and  nobody  must  say  a  word.  It's  evi- 
dently very  important  to  have  a  belt.  But  ap- 
parently you  have  to  be  rather  high  up  in  society 
to  have  one.  Possibly,"  he  added,  thoughtfully — 
"possibly  the  explanation  of  the  phrase  'a  belted 
earl,'  the  meaning  of  which  has  always  escaped 


me. 


"I  mean  those  personalities  won't  do,"  re- 
turned Gryce,  frowning  at  the  table. 

"And  Mother  Biddle  and  Long  Adam,  the 
poacher,  are  not  personalities,"  said  Fisher,  "and 
I  suppose  we  mustn't  ask  how  Verner  made  all 
the  money  that  enabled  him  to  become — a  per- 
sonality." 

Gryce  was  still  looking  at  him  under  lowering 
brows,  but  the  singular  light  in  his  eyes  had 
20 1 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

brightened.  At  last  he  said,  in  another  and 
much  quieter  voice: 

"Look  here,  sir.  I  like  you,  if  you  don't  mind 
my  saying  so.  I  think  you  are  really  on  the  side 
of  the  people  and  I'm  sure  you're  a  brave  man. 
A  lot  braver  than  you  know,  perhaps.  We 
daren't  touch  what  you  propose  with  a  barge 
pole;  and  so  far  from  wanting  you  in  the  old 
party,  we'd  rather  you  ran  your  own  risk  by 
yourself.  But  because  I  like  you  and  respect 
your  pluck,  I'll  do  you  a  good  turn  before  we 
part.  I  don't  want  you  to  waste  time  barking 
up  the  wrong  tree.  You  talk  about  how  the  new 
squire  got  the  money  to  buy,  and  the  ruin  of  the 
old  squire,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Well,  I'll  give 
you  a  hint  about  that,  a  hint  about  something 
precious  few  people  know." 

"I  am  very  grateful,"  said  Fisher,  gravely. 
uWhatisit?" 

"It's  in  two  words,"  said  the  other.  "The 
new  squire  was  quite  poor  when  he  bought.  The 
old  squire  was  quite  rich  when  he  sold." 

Home  Fisher  looked  at  him  thoughtfully  as 
he  turned  away  abruptly  and  busied  himself  with 
the  papers  on  his  desk.  Then  Fisher  uttered  a 
short  phrase  of  thanks  and  farewell,  and  went 
out  into  the  street,  still  very  thoughtful. 

His  reflection  seemed  to  end  in  resolution, 
and,  falling  into  a  more  rapid  stride,  he  passed 
out  of  the  little  town  along  a  road  leading  to- 
202 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

ward  the  gate  of  the  great  park,  the  country  seat 
of  Sir  Francis  Verner.  A  glitter  of  sunlight 
made  the  early  winter  more  like  a  late  autumn, 
and  the  dark  woods  were  touched  here  and  there 
with  red  and  golden  leaves,  like  the  last  rays  of 
a  lost  sunset.  From  a  higher  part  of  the  road 
he  had  seen  the  long,  classical  f  agade  of  the  great 
house  with  its  many  windows,  almost  imme- 
diately beneath  him,  but  when  the  road  ran  down 
under  the  wall  of  the  estate,  topped  with  tower- 
ing trees  behind,  he  realized  that  it  was  half  a 
mile  round  to  the  lodge  gates,  After  walking 
for  a  few  minutes  along  the  lane,  however,  he 
came  to  a  place  where  the  wall  had  cracked  and 
was  in  process  of  repair.  As  it  was,  there  was  a 
great  gap  in  the  gray  masonry  that  looked  at 
first  as  black  as  a  cavern  and  only  showed  at  a 
second  glance  the  twilight  of  the  twinkling  trees. 
There  was  something  fascinating  about  that  un- 
expected gate,  like  the  opening  of  a  fairy  tale. 

Home  Fisher  had  in  him  something  of  the 
aristocrat,  which  is  very  near  to  the  anarchist. 
It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  turned  into 
this  dark  and  irregular  entry  as  casually  as  into 
his  own  front  door,  merely  thinking  that  it  would 
be  a  short  cut  to  the  house.  He  made  his  way 
through  the  dim  wood  for  some  distance  and 
with  some  difficulty,  until  there  began  to  shine 
through  the  trees  a  level  light,  in  lines  of  silver, 
which  he  did  not  at  first  understand.  The  next 
203 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

moment  he  had  come  out  into  the  daylight  at 
the  top  of  a  steep  bank,  at  the  bottom  of  which 
a  path  ran  round  the  rim  of  a  large  ornamental 
lake.  The  sheet  of  water  which  he  had  seen 
shimmering  through  the  trees  was  of  consider- 
able extent,  but  was  walled  in  on  every  side  with 
'woods  which  were  not  only  dark,  but  decidedly 
dismal.  At  one  end  of  the  path  was  a  classical 
statue  of  some  nameless  nymph,  and  at  the  other 
end  it  was  flanked  by  two  classical  urns;  but  the 
marble  was  weather-stained  and  streaked  with 
green  and  gray.  A  hundred  other  signs,  smaller 
but  more  significant,  told  him  that  he  had  come 
on  some  outlying  corner  of  the  grounds  neglected 
and  seldom  visited.  In  the  middle  of  the  lake 
was  what  appeared  to  be  an  island,  and  on  the 
island  what  appeared  to  be  meant  for  a  classical 
temple,  not  open  like  a  temple  of  the  winds,  but 
with  a  blank  wall  between  its  Doric  pillars.  We 
may  say  it  only  seemed  like  an  island,  because  a 
second  glance  revealed  a  low  causeway  of  flat 
stones  running  up  to  it  from  the  shore  and  turn- 
ing it  into  a  peninsula.  And  certainly  it  only 
seemed  like  a  temple,  for  nobody  knew  better 
than  Home  Fisher  that  no  god  had  ever  dwelt 
in  that  shrine. 

"That's  what  makes  all  this  classical  land- 
scape gardening  so  desolate,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"More  desolate  than  Stonehenge  or  the  Pyra- 
mids.   We  don't  believe  in  Egyptian  mythology, 
204 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

but  the  Egyptians  did;  and  I  suppose  even  the 
Druids  believed  in  Druidism.  But  the  eight- 
eenth-century gentleman  who  built  these  temples 
didn't  believe  in  Venus  or  Mercury  any  more 
than  we  do;  that's  why  the  reflection  of  those 
pale  pillars  in  the  lake  is  truly  only  the  shadow 
of  a  shade.  They  were  men  of  the  age  of  Rea- 
son; they,  who  filled  their  gardens  with  these 
stone  nymphs,  had  less  hope  than  any  men  in  all 
history  of  really  meeting  a  nymph  in  the  forest." 

His  monologue  stopped  abruptly  with  a  sharp 
noise  like  a  thundercrack  that  rolled  in  dreary  # 
echoes  round  the  dismal  mere.  He  knew  at 
once  what  it  was — somebody  had  fired  off  a  gun. 
But  as  to  the  meaning  of  it  he  was  momentarily 
staggered,  and  strange  thoughts  thronged  into 
his  mind.  The  next  moment  he  laughed;  for  he 
saw  lying  a  little  way  along  the  path  below  him 
the  dead  bird  that  the  shot  had  brought  down. 

At  the  same  moment,  however,  he  saw  some- 
thing else,  which  interested  him  more.  A  ring 
of  dense  trees  ran  round  the  back  of  the  island 
temple,  framing  the  fagade  of  it  in  dark  foliage, 
and  he  could  have  sworn  he  saw  a  stir  as  of 
something  moving  among  the  leaves.  The  next 
moment  his  suspicion  was  confirmed,  for  a  rather 
ragged  figure  came  from  under  the  shadow  of 
the  temple  and  began  to  move  along  the  cause- 
way that  led  to  the  bank.  Even  at  that  distance 
the  figure  was  conspicuous  by  its  great  height 
205 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

and  Fisher  could  see  that  the  man  carried  a  gun 
under  his  arm.  There  came  back  into  his  mem- 
ory at  once  the  name  Long  Adam,  the  poacher. 

With  a  rapid  sense  of  strategy  he  sometimes 
showed,  Fisher  sprang  from  the  bank  and  raced 
round  the  lake  to  the  head  of  the  little  pier  of 
stones.  If  once  a  man  reached  the  mainland  he 
could  easily  vanish  into  the  woods.  But  when 
Fisher  began  to  advance  along  the  stones  toward 
the  island,  the  man  was  cornered  in  a  blind  alley 
and  could  only  back  toward  the  temple.  Putting 
his  broad  shoulders  against  it,  he  stood  as  if  at 
bay;  he  was  a  comparatively  young  man,  with 
fine  lines  in  his  lean  face  and  figure  and  a  mop 
of  ragged  red  hair.  The  look  in  his  eyes  might 
well  have  been  disquieting  to  anyone  left  alone 
with  him  on  an  island  in  the  middle  of  a  lake. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Home  Fisher,  pleas- 
antly. "I  thought  at  first  you  were  a  murderer. 
But  it  seems  unlikely,  somehow,  that  the  par- 
tridge rushed  between  us  and  died  for  love  of 
me,  like  the  heroines  in  the  romances;  so  I  sup- 
pose you  are  a  poacher." 

"I  suppose  you  would  call  me  a  poacher,"  an- 
swered the  man;  and  his  voice  was  something  of 
a  surprise  coming  from  such  a  scarecrow;  it  had 
that  hard  fastidiousness  to  be  found  in  those 
who  have  made  a  fight  for  their  own  refinement 
among  rough  surroundings.  "I  consider  I  have 
a  perfect  right  to  shoot  game  in  this  place.  But 
206 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

I  am  well  aware  that  people  of  your  sort  take 
me  for  a  thief,  and  I  suppose  you  will  try  to 
land  me  in  jail." 

"There  are  preliminary  difficulties,"  replied 
Fisher.  "To  begin  with,  the  mistake  is  flatter- 
ing, but  I  am  not  a  gamekeeper.-  Still  less  am 
I  three  gamekeepers,  who  would  be,  I  imagine, 
about  your  fighting  weight.  But  I  confess  I 
have  another  reason  for  not  wanting  to  jail  you." 

"And  what  is  that?"  asked  the  other. 

"Only  that  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  answered 
Fisher.  "I  don't  exactly  say  you  have  a  right 
to  poach,  but  I  never  could  see  that  it  was  as 
wrong  as  being  a  thief.  It  seems  to  me  against 
the  whole  normal  notion  of  property  that  a 
man  should  own  something  because  it  flies  across 
his  garden.  He  might  as  well  own  the  wind,  or 
think  he  could  write  his  name  on  a  morning 
cloud.  Besides,  if  we  want  poor  people  to  re- 
spect property  we  must  give  them  some  property 
to  respect.  You  ought  to  have  land  of  your 
own;  and  I'm  going  to  give  you  some  if  I  can." 

"Going  to  give  me  some  land !"  repeated  Long 
Adam. 

"I  apologize  for  addressing  you  as  if  you 
were  a  public  meeting,"  said  Fisher,  "but  I  am 
an  entirely  new  kind  of  public  man  who  says  the 
same  thing  in  public  and  in  private.  I've  said 
this  to  a  hundred  huge  meetings  throughout  the 
country,  and  I  say  it  to  you  on  this  queer  little 
207 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

island  in  this  dismal  pond.  I  would  cut  up  a  big 
estate  like  this  into  small  estates  for  everybody, 
even  for  poachers.  I  would  do  in  England  as 
they  did  in  Ireland — buy  the  big  men  out,  if 
possible ;  get  them  out,  anyhow.  A  man  like  you 
ought  to  have  a  little  place  of  his  own.  I  don't 
say  you  could  keep  pheasants,  but  you  might  keep 
chickens." 

The  man  stiffened  suddenly  and  he  seemed  at 
once  to  blanch  and  flame  at  the  promise  as  if  it 
were  a  threat. 

"Chickens  I"  he  repeated,  with  a  passion  of 
contempt. 

"Why  do  you  object?"  asked  the  placid  can- 
didate. "Because  keeping  hens  is  rather  a  mild 
amusement  for  a  poacher?  What  about  poach- 
ing eggs?" 

"Because  I  am  not  a  poacher,"  cried  Adam, 
in  a  rending  voice  that  rang  round  the  hollow 
shrines  and  urns  like  the  echoes  of  his  gun.  "Be- 
cause the  partridge  lying  dead  over  there  is  my 
partridge.  Because  the  land  you  are  standing 
on  is  my  land.  Because  my  own  land  was  only 
taken  from  me  by  a  crime,  and  a  worse  crime 
than  poaching.  This  has  been  a  single  estate 
for  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years,  and  if  you 
or  any  meddlesome  mountebank  comes  here  and 
talks  of  cutting  it  up  like  a  cake,  if  I  ever  hear 
a  word  more  of  you  and  your  leveling  lies " 

"You  seem  to  be  a  rather  turbulent  public 
208 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

meeting,"  observed  Home  Fisher,  "but  do  go  on. 
What  will  happen  if  I  try  to  divide  this  estate 
decently  among  decent  people?" 

The  poacher  had  recovered  a  grim  composure 
as  he  replied.  "There  will  be  no  partridge  to 
rush  in  between." 

With  that  he  turned  his  back,  evidently  re- 
solved to  say  no  more,  and  walked  past  the 
temple  to  the  extreme  end  of  the  islet,  where  he 
stood  staring  into  the  water.  Fisher  followed 
him,  but,  when  his  repeated  questions  evoked 
no  answer,  turned  back  toward  the  shore.  In 
doing  so  he  took  a  second  and  closer  look  at  the 
artificial  temple,  and  noted  some  curious  things 
about  it.  Most  of  these  theatrical  things  were 
as  thin  as  theatrical  scenery,  and  he  expected  the 
classic  shrine  to  be  a  shallow  thing,  a  mere  shell 
or  mask.  But  there  was  some  substantial  bulk 
of  it  behind,  buried  in  the  trees,  which  had  a 
gray,  labyrinthian  look,  like  serpents  of  stone, 
and  lifted  a  load  of  leafy  towers  to  the  sky. 
But  what  arrested  Fisher's  eye  was  that  in  this 
bulk  of  gray-white  stone  behind  there  was  a 
single  door  with  great,  rusty  bolts  outside;  the 
bolts,  however,  were  not  shot  across  so  as  to 
secure  it.  Then  he  walked  round  the  small 
building,  and  found  no  other  opening  except  one 
small  grating  like  a  ventilator,  high  up  in  the 
wall.  He  retraced  his  steps  thoughtfully  along 
the  causeway  to  the  banks  of  the  lake,  and  sat 
209 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

down  on  the  stone  steps  between  the  two  sculp- 
tured funeral  urns.  Then  he  lit  a  cigarette  and 
smoked  it  in  ruminant  manner;  eventually  he 
took  out  a  notebook  and  wrote  down  various 
phrases,  numbering  and  renumbering  them  till 
they  stood  in  the  following  order:  "(i)  Squire 
Hawker  disliked  his  first  wife.  (2)  He  mar- 
ried his  second  wife  for  her  money.  (3)  Long 
Adam  says  the  estate  is  really  his.  (4)  Long 
Adam  hangs  round  the  island  temple,  which 
looks  like  a  prison.  (5)  Squire  Hawker  was 
not  poor  when  he  gave  up  the  estate.  (6) 
Verner  was  poor  when  he  got  the  estate." 

He  gazed  at  these  notes  with  a  gravity  which 
gradually  turned  to  a  hard  smile,  threw  away 
his  cigarette,  and  resumed  his  search  for  a  short 
cut  to  the  great  house.  He  soon  picked  up  the 
path  which,  winding  among  clipped  hedges  and 
flower  beds,  brought  him  in  front  of  its  long 
Palladian  facade.  It  had  the  usual  appearance 
of  being,  not  a  private  house,  but  a  sort  of  public 
building  sent  into  exile  in  the  provinces. 

He  first  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  the 
butler,  who  really  looked  much  older  than  the 
building,  for  the  architecture  was  dated  as 
Georgian;  but  the  man's  face,  under  a  highly 
unnatural  brown  wig,  was  wrinkled  with  what 
might  have  been  centuries.  Only  his  prominent 
eyes  were  alive  and  alert,  as  if  with  protest. 
Fisher  glanced  at  him,  and  then  stopped  and  said : 
210 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

"Excuse  me.  Weren't  you  with  the  late 
squire,  Mr.  Hawker?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man,  gravely.  "Usher  is 
my  name.    What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Only  take  me  into  Sir  Francis  Verner,"  re- 
plied the  visitor. 

Sir  Francis  Verner  was  sitting  in  an  easy  chair 
beside  a  small  table  in  a  large  room  hung  with 
tapestries.  On  the  table  were  a  small  flask  and 
glass,  with  the  green  glimmer  of  a  liqueur  and  a 
cup  of  black  coffee.  He  was  clad  in  a  quiet  gray 
suit  with  a  moderately  harmonious  purple  tie; 
but  Fisher  saw  something  about  the  turn  of  his 
fair  mustache  and  the  lie  of  his  flat  hair — it 
suddenly  revealed  that  his  name  was  Franz 
Werner. 

"You  are  Mr.  Home  Fisher,"  he  said. 
"Won't  you  sit  down  ?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  replied  Fisher.  "I  fear  this 
is  not  a  friendly  occasion,  and  I  shall  remain 
standing.  Possibly  you  know  that  I  am  already 
standing — standing  for  Parliament,  in  fact." 

"I  am  aware  we  are  political  opponents,"  re- 
plied Verner,  raising  his  eyebrows.  "But  I  think 
it  would  be  better  if  we  fought  in  a  sporting 
spirit;  in  a  spirit  of  English  fair  play." 

"Much  better,"  assented  Fisher.     "It  would 

be  much  better  if  you  were  English  and  very 

much  better  if  you  had  ever  played  fair.     But 

what  I've  come  to  say  can  be  said  very  shortly. 

211 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

I  don't  quite  know  how  we  stand  with  the  law 
about  that  old  Hawker  story,  but  my  chief  ob- 
ject is  to  prevent  England  being  entirely  ruled 
by  people  like  you.  So  whatever  the  law  would 
say,  I  will  say  no  more  if  you  will  retire  from 
the  election  at  once." 

"You  are  evidently  a  lunatic,"  said  Verner. 

"My  psychology  may  be  a  little  abnormal," 
replied  Home  Fisher,  in  a  rather  hazy  manner. 
"I  am  subject  to  dreams,  especially  day-dreams. 
Sometimes  what  is  happening  to  me  grows  vivid 
in  a  curious  double  way,  as  if  it  had  happened 
before.  Have  you  ever  had  that  mystical  feel- 
ing that  things  have  happened  before?" 

"I  hope  you  are  a  harmless  lunatic,"  said 
Verner. 

But  Fisher  was  still  staring  in  an  absent 
fashion  at  the  golden  gigantic  figures  and  trac- 
eries of  brown  and  red  in  the  tapestries  on  the 
walls;  then  he  looked  again  at  Verner  and  re- 
sumed: "I  have  a  feeling  that  this  interview  has 
happened  before,  here  in  this  tapestried  room, 
and  we  are  two  ghosts  revisiting  a  haunted  cham- 
ber. But  it  was  Squire  Hawker  who  sat  where 
you  sit  and  it  was  you  who  stood  where  I  stand." 
He  paused  a  moment  and  then  added,  with  sim- 
plicity, "I  suppose  I  am  a  blackmailer,  too." 

"If  you  are,"  said  Sir  Francis,  "I  promise  you 
you  shall  go  to  jail."  But  his  face  had  a  shade 
on  it  that  looked  like  the  reflection  of  the  green 
212 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

wine  gleaming  on  the  table.  Home  Fisher  re- 
garded him  steadily  and  answered,  quietly 
enough : 

"Blackmailers  do  not  always  go  to  jail.  Some- 
times they  go  to  Parliament.  Rut,  though 
Parliament  is  rotten  enough  already,  you  shall 
not  go  there  if  I  can  help  it.  I  am  not  so  criminal 
as  you  were  in  bargaining  with  crime.  You  made 
a  squire  give  up  his  country  seat.  I  only  ask 
you  to  give  up  your  Parliamentary  seat." 

Sir  Francis  Verner  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
looked  about  for  one  of  the  bell  ropes  of  the 
old-fashioned,  curtained  room. 

"Where  is  Usher?"  he  cried,  with  a  livid  face. 

"And  who  is  Usher?"  said  Fisher,  softly.  "I 
wonder  how  much  Usher  knows  of  the  truth." 

Verner's  hand  fell  from  the  bell  rope  and, 
after  standing  for  a  moment  with  rolling  eyes, 
he  strode  abruptly  from  the  room.  Fisher  went 
out  by  the  other  door,  by  which  he  had  entered, 
and,  seeing  no  sign  of  Usher,  let  himself  out  and 
betook  himself  again  toward  the  town. 

That  night  he  put  an  electric  torch  in  his 
pocket  and  set  out  alone  in  the  darkness  to  add 
the  last  links  to  his  argument.  There  was  much 
that  he  did  not  know  yet;  but  he  thought  he 
knew  where  he  could  find  the  knowledge.  The 
night  closed  dark  and  stormy  and  the  black  gap 
in  the  wall  looked  blacker  than  ever;  the  wood 
seemed  to  have  grown  thicker  and  darker  in  a 
213 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

day.  If  the  deserted  lake  with  its  black  woods 
and  gray  urns  and  images  looked  desolate  even 
by  daylight,  under  the  night  and  the  growing 
storm  it  seemed  still  more  like  the  pool  of 
Acheron  in  the  land  of  lost  souls.  As  he  stepped 
carefully  along  the  jetty  stones  he  seemed  to  be 
traveling  farther  and  farther  into  the  abyss  of 
night,  and  to  have  left  behind  him  the  last  points 
from  which  it  would  be  possible  to  signal  to  the 
land  of  the  living.  The  lake  seemed  to  have 
grown  larger  than  a  sea,  but  a  sea  of  black  and 
slimy  waters  that  slept  with  abominable  serenity, 
as  if  they  had  washed  out  the  world.  There  was 
so  much  of  this  nightmare  sense  of  extension  and 
expansion  that  he  was  strangely  surprised  to 
come  to  his  desert  island  so  soon.  But  he  knew 
it  for  a  place  of  inhuman  silence  and  solitude; 
and  he  felt  as  if  he  had  been  walking  for 
years. 

Nerving  himself  to  a  more  normal  mood,  he 
paused  under  one  of  the  dark  dragon  trees  that 
branched  out  above  him,  and,  taking  out  hir- 
torch,  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  door  at  the 
back  of  the  temple.  It  was  unbolted  as  before, 
and  the  thought  stirred  faintly  in  him  that  it 
was  slightly  open,  though  only  by  a  crack.  The 
more  he  thought  of  it,  however,  the  more  cer- 
tain he  grew  that  this  was  but  one  of  the  common 
illusions  of  light  coming  from  a  different  angle. 
He  studied  in  a  more  scientific  spirit  the  details 
214 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

of  the  door,  with  its  rusty  bolts  and  hinges,  when 
he  became  conscious  of  something  very  near 
him — indeed,  nearly  above  his  head.  Something 
was  dangling  from  the  tree  that  was  not  a  broken 
branch.  For  some  seconds  he  stood  as  still  as 
a  stone,  and  as  cold.  What  he  saw  above  him 
were  the  legs  of  a  man  hanging,  presumably  a 
dead  man  hanged.  But  the  next  moment  he 
knew  better.  The  man  was  literally  alive  and 
kicking;  and  an  instant  after  he  had  dropped  to 
the  ground  and  turned  on  the  intruder.  Simul- 
taneously three  or  four  other  trees  seemed  to 
come  to  life  in  the  same  fashion.  Five  or  six 
other  figures  had  fallen  on  their  feet  from  these 
unnatural  nests.  It  was  as  if  the  place  were  an 
island  of  monkeys.  But  a  moment  after  they 
had  made  a  stampede  toward  him,  and  when 
they  laid  their  hands  on  him  he  knew  that  they 
were  men. 

With  trie  electric  torch  in  his  hand  he  struck 
the  foremost  of  them  so  furiously  in  the  face 
that  the  man  stumbled  and  rolled  over  on  the 
slimy  grass;  but  the  torch  was  broken  and  ex- 
tinguished, leaving  everything  in  a  denser  ob- 
scurity. He  flung  another  man  flat  against  the 
temple  wall,  so  that  he  slid  to  the  ground;  but 
a  third  and  fourth  carried  Fisher  off  his  feet 
and  began  to  bear  him,  struggling,  toward  the 
doorway.  Even  in  the  bewilderment  of  the 
battle  he  was  conscious  that  the  door  was  stand- 
15  215 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

ing  open.  Somebody  was  summoning  the  roughs 
from  inside. 

The  moment  they  were  within  they  hurled 
him  upon  a  sort  of  bench  or  bed  with  violence, 
but  no  damage;  for  the  settee,  or  whatever  it 
was,  seemed  to  be  comfortably  cushioned  for 
his  reception.  Their  violence  had  in  it  a  great 
element  of  haste,  and  before  he  could  rise  they 
had  all  rushed  for  the  door  to  escape.  What- 
ever bandits  they  were  that  infested  this  desert 
island,  they  were  obviously  uneasy  about  their 
job  and  very  anxious  to  be  quit  of  it.  He  had 
the  flying  fancy  that  regular  criminals  would 
hardly  be  in  such  a  panic.  The  next  moment  the 
great  door  crashed  to  and  he  could  hear  the 
bolts  shriek  as  they  shot  into  their  place,  and  the 
feet  of  the  retreating  men  scampering  and  stum- 
bling along  the  causeway.  But  rapidly  as  it  hap- 
pened, it  did  not  happen  before  Fisher  had  done 
something  that  he  wanted  to  do.  Unable  to 
rise  from  his  sprawling  attitude  in  that  flash  of 
time,  he  had  shot  out  one  of  his  long  legs  and 
hooked  it  round  the  ankle  of  the  last  man  dis- 
appearing through  the  door.  The  man  swayed 
and  toppled  over  inside  the  prison  chamber,  and 
the  door  closed  between  him  and  his  fleeing  com- 
panions. Clearly  they  were  in  too  much  haste 
to  realize  that  they  had  left  one  of  their  company 
behind. 

The  man  sprang  to  his  feet  again  and  ham- 
216 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

mered  and  kicked  furiously  at  the  door.  Fisher's 
sense  of  humor  began  to  recover  from  the  strug- 
gle and  he  sat  up  on  his  sofa  with  something  of 
his  native  nonchalance.  But  as  he  listened  to 
the  captive  captor  beating  on  the  door  of  the 
prison,  a  new  and  curious  reflection  came  to  him. 

The  natural  course  for  a  man  thus  wishing 
to  attract  his  friends'  attention  would  be  to  call 
out,  to  shout  as  well  as  kick.  This  man  was 
making  as  much  noise  as  he  could  with  his  feet 
and  hands,  but  not  a  sound  came  from  his  throat. 
Why  couldn't  he  speak?  At  first  he  thought  the 
man  might  be  gagged,  which  was  manifestly 
absurd.  Then  his  fancy  fell  back  on  the  ugly 
idea  that  the  man  was  dumb.  He  hardly  knew 
why  it  was  so  ugly  an  idea,  but  it  affected  his 
imagination  in  a  dark  and  disproportionate 
fashion.  There  seemed  to  be  something  creepy 
about  the  idea  of  being  left  in  a  dark  room  with 
a  deaf  mute.  It  was  almost  as  if  such  a  defect 
were  a  deformity.  It  was  almost  as  if  it  went 
with  other  and  worse  deformities.  It  was  as  if 
the  shape  he  could  not  trace  in  the  darkness  were 
some  shape  that  should  not  see  the  sun. 

Then  he  had  a  flash  of  sanity  and  also  of 
insight.  The  explanation  was  very  simple,  but 
rather  interesting.  Obviously  the  man  did  not 
use  his  voice  because  he  did  not  wish  his  voice 
to  be  recognized.  He  hoped  to  escape  from 
that  dark  place  before  Fisher  found  out  who  he 
217 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Mu.ch 

was.  And  who  was  he?  One  thing  at  least  was 
clear.  He  was  one  or  other  of  the  four  or  five 
men  with  whom  Fisher  had  already  talked  in 
these  parts,  and  in  the  development  of  that 
strange  story. 

"Now  I  wonder  who  you  are,"  he  said,  aloud, 
with  all  his  old  lazy  urbanity.  "I  suppose  it's 
no  use  trying  to  throttle  you  in  order  to  find  out; 
it  would  be  displeasing  to  pass  the  night  with  a 
corpse.  Besides  I  might  be  the  corpse.  I've 
got  no  matches  and  I've  smashed  my  torch,  so 
I  can  only  speculate.  Who  could  you  be,  now? 
Let  us  think." 

The  man  thus  genially  addressed  had  desisted 
from  drumming  on  the  door  and  retreated  sul- 
lenly into  a  corner  as  Fisher  continued  to  address 
him  in  a  flowing  monologue. 

"Probably  you  are  the  poacher  who  says  he 
isn't  a  poacher.  He  says  he's  a  landed  pro- 
prietor; but  he  will  permit  me  to  inform  him 
that,  whatever  he  is,  he's  a  fool.  What  hope 
can  there  ever  be  of  a  free  peasantry  in  England 
if  the  peasants  themselves  are  such  snobs  as  to 
want  to  be  gentlemen?  How  can  we  make  a 
democracy  with  no  democrats?  As  it  is,  you 
want  to  be  a  landlord  and  so  you  consent  to  be 
a  criminal.  And  in  that,  you  know,  you  are 
rather  like  somebody  else.  And,  now  I  think 
of  it,  perhaps  you  are  somebody  else." 

There  was  a  silence  broken  by  breathing  from 
218 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

the  corner  and  the  murmur  of  the  rising  storm, 
that  came  in  through  the  small  grating  above  the 
man's  head.    Home  Fisher  continued: 

"Are  you  only  a  servant,  perhaps,  that  rather 
sinister  old  servant  who  was  butler  to  Hawker 
and  Verner?  If  so,  you  are  certainly  the  only 
link  between  the  two  periods.  But  if  so,  why  do 
you  degrade  yourself  to  serve  this  dirty  for- 
eigner, when  you  at  least  saw  the  last  of  a  gen- 
uine national  gentry?  People  like  you  are  gen- 
erally at  least  patriotic.  Doesn't  England  mean 
anything  to  you,  Mr.  Usher?  All  of  which 
eloquence  is  possibly  wasted,  as  perhaps  you  are 
not  Mr.  Usher. 

"More  likely  you  are  Verner  himself;  and  it's 
no  good  wasting  eloquence  to  make  you  ashamed 
of  yourself.  Nor  is  it  any  good  to  curse  you 
for  corrupting  England;  nor  are  you  the  right 
person  to  curse.  It  is  the  English  who  deserve 
to  be  cursed,  and  are  cursed,  because  they  al- 
lowed such  vermin  to  crawl  into  the  high  places 
of  their  heroes  and  their  kings.  I  won't  dwell 
on  the  idea  that  you're  Verner,  or  the  throttling 
might  begin,  after  all.  Is  there  anyone  else  you 
could  be?  Surely  you're  not  some  servant  of 
the  other  rival  organization.  I  can't  believe 
you're  Gryce,  the  agent;  and  yet  Gryce  had  a 
spark  of  the  fanatic  in  his  eye,  too;  and  men  will 
do  extraordinary  things  in  these  paltry  feuds 
of  politics.  Or  if  not  the  servant,  is  it  the  .  .  . 
219 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

No,  I  can't  believe  it  .  .  .  not  the  red  blood  of 
manhood  and  liberty  .  .  .  not  the  democratic 
ideal  .   .   ." 

He  sprang  up  in  excitement,  and  at  the  same 
moment  a  growl  of  thunder  came  through  the 
grating  beyond.  The  storm  had  broken,  and 
with  it  a  new  light  broke  on  his  mind.  There 
was  something  else  that  might  happen  in  a 
moment. 

"Do  you  know  what  that  means?"  he  cried. 
"It  means  that  God  himself  may  hold  a  candle 
to  show  me  your  infernal  face." 

Then  next  moment  came  a  crash  of  thunder; 
but  before  the  thunder  a  white  light  had  filled 
the  whole  room  for  a  single  split  second. 

Fisher  had  seen  two  things  in.  front  of  him. 
One  was  the  black-and-white  pattern  of  the  iron 
grating  against  the  sky;  the  other  was  the  face 
in  the  corner.    It  was  the  face  of  his  brother. 

Nothing  came  from  Home  Fisher's  lips  ex- 
cept a  Christian  name,  which  was  followed  by  a 
silence  more  dreadful  than  the  dark.  At  last 
the  other  figure  stirred  and  sprang  up,  and  the 
voice  of  Harry  Fisher  was  heard  for  the  first 
time  in  that  horrible  room. 

"You've  seen  me,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "and 
we  may  as  well  have  a  light  now.  You  could 
have  turned  it  on  at  any  time,  if  you'd  found  the 
switch." 

He  pressed  a  button  in  the  wall  and  all  the 
220 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

details  of  that  room  sprang  into  something 
stronger  than  daylight.  Indeed,  the  details  were 
so  unexpected  that  for  a  moment  they  turned  the 
captive's  rocking  mind  from  the  last  personal 
revelation.  The  room,  so  far  from  being  a 
dungeon  cell,  was  more  like  a  drawing-room, 
even  a  lady's  drawing-room,  except  for  some 
boxes  of  cigars  and  bottles  of  wine  that  were 
stacked  with  books  and  magazines  on  a  side 
table.  A  second  glance  showed  him  that  the 
more  masculine  fittings  were  quite  recent,  and 
that  the  more  feminine  background  was  quite 
old.  His  eye  caught  a  strip  of  faded  tapestry, 
which  startled  him  into  speech,  to  the  momentary 
oblivion  of  bigger  matters. 

"This  place  was  furnished  from  the  great 
house,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other,  "and  I  think  you 
know  why." 

"I  think  I  do,"  said  Home  Fisher,  "and  be- 
fore I  go  on  to  more  extraordinary  things  I  will 
say  what  I  think.  Squire  Hawker  played  both 
the  bigamist  and  the  bandit.  His  first  wife  was 
not  dead  when  he  married?JHkA0£f£  she  was 
imprisoned  on  this  island.  Shebore  him  a  child 
here,  who  now  haunts  his  birthplace  under  the 
name  of  Long  Adam.  A  bankruptcy  company 
promoter  named  Werner  discovered  the  secret 
and  blackmailed  the  squire  into  surrendering  the 
estate.  That's  all  quite  clear  and  very  easy. 
221 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

And  now  let  me  go  on  to  something  more 
difficult.  And  that  is  for  you  to  explain 
what  the  devil  you  are  doing  kidnaping  your 
born  brother. 

After  a  pause  Henry  Fisher  answered : 

"I  suppose  you  didn't  expect  to  see  me,"  he 
said.     "But,  after  all,  what  could  you  expect  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  follow,"  said  Home 
Fisher. 

"I  mean  what  else  could  you  expect,  after 
making  such  a  muck  of  it?"  said  his  brother, 
sulkily.  "We  all  thought  you  were  so  clever. 
How  could  we  know  you  were  going  to  be — well, 
really,  such  a  rotten  failure?" 

"This  is  rather  curious,"  said  the  candidate, 
frowning.  "Without  vanity,  I  was  not  under 
the  impression  that  my  candidature  was  a  fail- 
ure. All  the  big  meetings  were  successful  and 
crowds  of  people  have  promised  me  votes." 

"I  should  jolly  well  think  they  had,"  said 
Henry,  grimly.  "You've  made  a  landslide  with 
your  confounded  acres  and  a  cow,  and  Verner 
can  hardly  get  a  vote  anywhere.  Oh,  it's  too 
rotten  for  anything!" 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  you  lunatic,"  cried  Henry,  in  tones  of 
ringing  sincerity,  "you  don't  suppose  you  were 
meant  to  win  the  seat,  did  you?  Oh,  it's  too 
childish!  I  tell  you  Verner's  got  to  get  in.  Of 
course  he's  got  to  get  in.  He's  to  have  the 
222 


The  Temple  of  Silence 

Exchequer  next  session,  and  there's  the  Egyptian 
loan  and  Lord  knows  what  else.  We  only- 
wanted  you  to  split  the  Reform  vote  because 
accidents  might  happen  after  Hughes  had  made 
a  score  at  Barkington.n 

"I  see,"  said  Fisher,  "and  you,  I  think,  are 
a  pillar  and  ornament  of  the  Reform  party.  As 
you  saty,  I  am  not  clever." 

The  appeal  to  party  loyalty  fell  on  deaf  ears; 
for  the  pillar  of  Reform  was  brooding  on  other 
things.  At  last  he  said,  in  a  more  troubled 
voice: 

"I  didn't  want  you  to  catch  me;  I  knew  it 
would  be  a  shock.  But  I  tell  you  what,  you 
never  would  have  caught  me  if  I  hadn't  come 
here  myself,  to  see  they  didn't  ill  treat  you  and 
to  make  sure  everything  was  as  comfortable  as 
it  could  be."  There  was  even  a  sort  of  break 
in  his  voice  as  he  added,  "I  got  those  cigars 
because  I  knew  you  liked  them." 

Emotions  are  queer  things,  and  the  idiocy  of 
this  concession  suddenly  softened  Home  Fisher 
like  an  unfathomable  pathos. 

"Never  mind,  old  chap,"  he  said;  "we'll  say 
no  more  about  it.  I'll  admit  that  you're  really 
as  kind-hearted  and  affectionate  a  scoundrel  and 
hypocrite  as  ever  sold  himself  to  ruin  his  country. 
There,  I  can't  say  handsomer  than  that.  Thank 
you  for  the  cigars,  old  man.  I'll  have  one  if 
you  don't  mind." 

223 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

By  the  time  that  Home  Fisher  had  ended  his 
telling  of  this  story  to  Harold  March  they  had 
come  out  into  one  of  the  public  parks  and  taken 
a  seat  on  a  rise  of  ground  overlooking  wide  green 
spaces  under  a  blue  and  empty  sky;  and  there 
was  something  incongruous  in  the  words  with 
which  the  narration  ended. 

"I  have  been  in  that  room  ever  since,"  said 
Home  Fisher.  "I  am  in  it  now.  I  won  the 
election,  but  I  never  went  to  the  House.  My 
life  has  been  a  life  in  that  little  room  on  that 
lonely  island.  Plenty  of  books  and  cigars  and 
luxuries,  plenty  of  knowledge  and  interest  and 
information,  but  never  a  voice  out  of  that  tomb 
to  reach  the  world  outside.  I  shall  probably  die 
there."  And  he  smiled  as  he  looked  across  the 
vast  green  park  to  the  gray  horizon. 


VIII 

THE  VENGEANCE  OF  THE  STATUE 

IT  was  on  the  .sunny  veranda  of  a  seaside  hotel, 
A  overlooking  a  pattern  of  flower  beds  and  a 
strip  of  blue  sea,  that  Home  Fisher  and  Harold 
March  had  their  final  explanation,  which  might 
be  called  an  explosion. 

Harold  March  had  come  to  the  little  table  and 
sat  down  at  it  with  a  subdued  excitement  smolder- 
ing in  his  somewhat  cloudy  and  dreamy  blue 
eyes.  In  the  newspapers  which  he  tossed  from 
him  on  to  the  table  there  was  enough  to  ex- 
plain some  if  not  all  of  his  emotion.  Public 
affairs  in  every  department  had  reached  a  crisis. 
The  government  which  had  stood  so  long  that 
men  were  used  to  it,  as  they  are  used  to  a 
hereditary  despotism,  had  begun  to  be  accused 
of  blunders  and  even  of  financial  abuses.  Some 
said  that  the  experiment  of  attempting  to  estab- 
lish a  peasantry  in  the  west  of  England,  on 
the  lines  of  an  early  fancy  of  Home  Fisher's, 
had  resulted  in  nothing  but  dangerous  quarrels 
with  more  industrial  neighbors.  There  had  been 
particular  complaints  of  the  ill  treatment  of 
harmless  foreigners,  chiefly  Asiatics,  who  hap- 
225 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

pened  to  be  employed  in  the  new  scientific  works 
constructed  on  the  coast.  Indeed,  the  new  Power 
which  had  arisen  in  Siberia,  backed  by  Japan 
and  other  powerful  allies,  was  inclined  to  take 
the  matter  up  in  the  interests  of  its  exiled  sub- 
jects; and  there  had  been  wild  talk  about  ambas- 
sadors and  ultimatums.  But  something  much 
more  serious,  in  its  personal  interest  for  March 
himself,  seemed  to  fill  his  meeting  with  his  friend 
with  a  mixture  of  embarrassment  and  indig- 
nation. 

Perhaps  it  increased  his  annoyance  that  there 
was  a  certain  unusual  liveliness  about  the  usually 
languid  figure  of  Fisher.  The  ordinary  image 
of  him  in  March's  mind  was  that  of  a  pallid  and 
bald-browed  gentleman,  who  seemed  to  be  pre- 
maturely old  as  well  as  prematurely  bald.  He 
was  remembered  as  a  man  who  expressed  the 
opinions  of  a  pessimist  in  the  language  of  a 
lounger.  Even  now  March  could  not  be  certain 
whether  the  change  was  merely  a  sort  of  mas- 
querade of  sunshine,  or  that  effect  of  clear  colors 
and  clean-cut  outlines  that  is  always  visible  on  the 
parade  of  a  marine  resort,  relieved  against  the 
blue  dado  of  the  sea.  But  Fisher  had  a  flower 
in  his  buttonhole,  and  his  friend  could  have 
sworn  he  carried  his  cane  with  something  almost 
like  the  swagger  of  a  fighter.  With  such  clouds 
gathering  over  England,  the  pessimist  seemed 
to  be  the  only  man  who  carried  his  own  sunshine. 
226 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

"Look  here,"  said  Harold  March,  abruptly, 
"you've  been  no  end  of  a  friend  to  me,  and  I 
never  was  so  proud  of  a  friendship  before ;  but 
there's  something  I  must  get  off  my  chest.  The 
more  I  found  out,  the  less  I  understood  how  you 
could  stand  it.  And  I  tell  you  I'm  going  to 
stand  it  no  longer." 

Home  Fisher  gazed  across  at  him  gravely 
and  attentively,  but  rather  as  if  he  were  a  long 
way  off. 

"You  know  I  always  liked  you,"  said  Fisher, 
quietly,  "but  I  also  respect  you,  which  is  not 
always  the  same  thing.  You  may  possibly  guess 
that  I  like  a  good  many  people  I  don't  respect. 
Perhaps  it  is  my  tragedy,  perhaps  it  is  my  fault. 
But  you  are  very  different,  and  I  promise  you 
this:  that  I  will  never  try  to  keep  you  as  some- 
body to  be  liked,  at  the  price  of  your  not  being 
respected." 

"I  know  you  are  magnanimous,"  said  March 
after  a  silence,  "and  yet  you  tolerate  and  per- 
petuate everything  that  is  mean."  Then  after 
another  silence  he  added:  "Do  you  remember 
when  we  first  met,  when  you  were  fishing  in 
that  brook  in  the  affair  of  the  target?  And  do 
you  remember  you  said  that,  after  all,  it  might 
do  no  harm  if  I  could  blow  the  whole  tangle  of 
this  society  to  Jiell  with  dynamite?" 

"Yes,  and  what  of  that?"  asked  Fisher. 

"Only  that  I'm  going  to  blow  it  to  hell  with 
227 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

dynamite,"  said  Harold  March,  "and  I  think  it 
right  to  give  you  fair  warning.  For  a  long  time 
I  didn't  believe  things  were  as  bad  as  you  said 
they  were.  But  I  never  felt  as  if  I  could  have 
bottled  up  what  you  knew,  supposing  you  really 
knew  it.  Well,  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is 
that  I've  got  a  conscience;  and  now,  at  last,  I've 
also  got  a  chance.  I've  been  put  in  charge  of 
a  big  independent  paper,  with  a  free  hand, 
and  we're  going  to  open  a  cannonade  on 
corruption." 

"That  will  be — Attwood,  I  suppose,"  said 
Fisher,  reflectively.  "Timber  merchant.  Knows 
a  lot  about  China." 

"He  knows  a  lot  about  England,"  said  March, 
doggedly,  "and  now  I  know  it,  too,  we're  not 
going  to  hush  it  up  any  longer.  The  people  of 
this  country  have  a  right  to  know  how  they're 
ruled — or,  rather,  ruined.  The  Chancellor  is 
in  the  pocket  of  the  money  lenders  and  has  to 
do  as  he  is  told;  otherwise  he's  bankrupt,  and 
a  bad  sort  of  bankruptcy,  too,  with  nothing  but 
cards  and  actresses  behind  it.  The  Prime  Minis- 
ter was  in  the  petrol-contract  business;  and  deep 
in  it,  too.  The  Foreign  Minister  is  a  wreck  of 
drink  and  drugs.  When  you  say  that  plainly 
about  a  man  who  may  send  thousands  of  English- 
men to  die  for  nothing,  you're  called  personal. 
If  a  poor  engine  driver  gets  drunk  and  sends 
thirty  or  forty  people  to  death,  nobody  com- 
228 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

plains  of  the  exposure  being  personal.  The 
engine  driver  is  not  a  person." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  Fisher,  calmly. 
"You  are  perfectly  right." 

"If  you  agree  with  us,  why  the  devil  don't 
you  act  with  us?"  demanded  his  friend.  "If 
you  think  it's  right,  why  don't  you  do  what's 
right?  It's  awful  to  think  of  a  man  of  your 
abilities  simply  blocking  the  road  to  reform." 

"We  have  often  talked  about  that,"  replied 
Fisher,  with  the  same  composure.  "The  Prime 
Minister  is  my  father's  friend.  The  Foreign 
Minister  married  my  sister.  The  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer  is  my  first  cousin.  I  mention  the 
genealogy  in  some  detail  just  now  for  a  par- 
ticular reason.  The  truth  is  I  have  a  curious 
kind  of  cheerfulness  at  the  moment.  It  isn't 
altogether  the  sun  and  the  sea,  sir.  I  am  en- 
joying an  emotion  that  is  entirely  new  to  me; 
a  happy  sensation  I  never  remember  having  had 
before." 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?" 

"I  am  feeling  proud  of  my  family,"  said 
Home  Fisher. 

Harold  March  stared  at  him  with  round  blue 
eyes,  and  seemed  too  much  mystified  even  to  ask 
a  question.  Fisher  leaned  back  in  his  chair  in 
his  lazy  fashion,  and  smiled  as  he  continued. 

"Look  here,  my  dear  fellow.  Let  me  ask  a 
question  in  turn.  You  imply  that  I  have  always 
229 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

known  these  things  about  my  unfortunate  kins- 
men. So  I  have.  Do  you  suppose  that  Attwood 
hasn't  always  known  them?  Do  you  suppose  he 
hasn't  always  known  you  as  an  honest  man  who 
would  say  these  things  when  he  got  a  chance? 
Why  does  Attwood  unmuzzle  you  like  a  dog  at 
this  moment,  after  all  these  years?  I  know  why 
he  does;  I  know  a  good  many  things,  far  too 
many  things.  And  therefore,  as  I  have  the 
honor  to  remark,  I  am  proud  of  my  family  at 
last." 

"But  why?"  repeated  March,  rather  feebly. 

"I  am  proud  of  the  Chancellor  because  he 
gambled  and  the  Foreign  Minister  because  he 
drank  and  the  Prime  Minister  because  he  took 
a  commission  on  a  contract,"  said  Fisher,  firmly. 
"I  am  proud  of  them  because  they  did  these 
things,  and  can  be  denounced  for  them,  and  know 
they  can  be  denounced  for  them,  and  are  stand- 
ing firm  for  all  that.  I  take  off  my  hat  to  them 
because  they  are  defying  blackmail,  and  refusing 
to  smash  their  country  to  save  themselves.  I 
salute  them  as  if  they  were  going  to  die  on  the 
battlefield." 

After  a  pause  he  continued:  "And  it  will  be 
a  battlefield,  too,  and  not  a  metaphorical  one. 
We  have  yielded  to  foreign  financiers  so  long 
that  now  it  is  war  or  ruin.  Even  the  people, 
even  the  country  people,  are  beginning  to  sus- 
pect that  they  are  being  ruined.  That  is  the 
230 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

meaning  of  the  regrettable  incidents  in  the 
newspapers." 

"The  meaning  of  the  outrages  on  Orientals?" 
asked  March. 

"The  meaning  of  the  outrages  on  Orientals," 
replied  Fisher,  "is  that  the  financiers  have  in- 
troduced Chinese  labor  into  this  country  with 
the  deliberate  intention  of  reducing  workmen 
and  peasants  to  starvation.  Our  unhappy  poli- 
ticians have  made  concession  after  concession; 
and  now  they  are  asking  concessions  which 
amount  to  our  ordering  a  massacre  of  our  own 
poor.  If  we  do  not  fight  now  we  shall  never 
fight  again.  They  will  have  put  England  in  an 
economic  position  of  starving  in  a  week.  But  we 
are  going  to  fight  now;  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
there  were  an  ultimatum  in  a  week  and  an  in- 
vasion in  a  fortnight.  All  the  past  corruption 
and  cowardice  is  hampering  us,  of  course;  the 
West  country  is  pretty  stormy  and  doubtful  even 
in  a  military  sense ;  and  the  Irish  regiments  there, 
that  are  supposed  to  support  us  by  the  new 
treaty,  are  pretty  well  in  mutiny;  for,  of  course, 
this  infernal  coolie  capitalism  is  being  pushed 
in  Ireland,  too.  But  it's  to  stop  now;  and  if  the 
government  message  of  reassurance  gets  through 
to  them  in  time,  they  may  turn  up  after  all  by 
the  time  the  enemy  lands.  For  my  poor  old 
gang  is  going  to  stand  to  its  guns  at  last.  Of 
course  it's  only  natural  that  when  they  have  been 
16  231 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

whitewashed  for  half  a  century  as  paragons, 
their  sins  should  come  back  on  them  at  the  very 
moment  when  they  are  behaving  like  men  for 
the  first  time  in  their  lives.  Well,  I  tell  you, 
March,  I  know  them  inside  out;  and  I  know  they 
are  behaving  like  heroes.  Every  man  of  them 
ought  to  have  a  statue,  and  on  the  pedestal  words 
like  those  of  the  noblest  ruffian  of  the  Revolu- 
tion: 'Que  mon  nom  soit  fletri;  que  la  France 
soit  libre!  " 

"Good  God!"  cried  March,  "shall  we  never 
get  to  the  bottom  of  your  mines  and  counter- 
mines ?" 

After  a  silence  Fisher  answered  in  a  lower 
voice,  looking  his  friend  in  the  eyes. 

"Did  you  think  there  was  nothing  but  evil 
at  the  bottom  of  them?"  he  asked,  gently.  "Did 
you  think  I  had  found  nothing  but  filth  in  the 
deep  seas  into  which  fate  has  thrown  me?  Be- 
lieve me,  you  never  know  the  best  about  men  till 
you  know  the  worst  about  them.  It  does  not 
dispose  of  their  strange  human  souls  to  know 
that  they  were  exhibited  to  the  world  as  impos- 
sibly impeccable  wax  works,  who  never  looked 
after  a  woman  or  knew  the  meaning  of  a  bribe. 
Even  in  a  palace,  life  can  be  lived  well;  and 
even  in  a  Parliament,  life  can  be  lived  with 
occasional  efforts  to  live  it  well.  I  tell  you  it  is 
as  true  of  these  rich  fools  and  rascals  as  it  is 
true  of  every  poor  footpad  and  pickpocket;  that 
232 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

only  God  knows  how  good  they  have  tried  to  be. 
God  alone  knows  what  the  conscience  can  sur- 
vive, or  how  a  man  who  has  lost  his  honor  will 
still  try  to  save  his  soul." 

There  was  another  silence,  and  March  sat 
staring  at  the  table  and  Fisher  at  the  sea.  Then 
Fisher  suddenly  sprang  to  his  feet  and  caught 
up  his  hat  and  stick  with  all  his  new  alertness 
and  even  pugnacity. 

"Look  here,  old  fellow,"  he  cried,  "let  us 
make  a  bargain.  Before  you  open  your  cam- 
paign for  Attwood  come  down  and  stay  with  us 
for  one  week,  to  hear  what  we're  really  doing. 
I  mean  with  the  Faithful  Few,  formerly  known 
as  the  Old  Gang,  occasionally  to  be  described  as 
the  Low  Lot.  There  are  really  only  five  of  us 
that  are  quite  fixed,  and  organizing  the  national 
defense;  and  we're  living  like  a  garrison  in  a 
sort  of  broken-down  hotel  in  Kent.  Come  and 
see  what  we're  really  doing  and  what  there  is  to 
be  done,  and  do  us  justice.  And  after  that,  with 
unalterable  love  and  affection  for  you,  publish 
and  be  damned." 

Thus  it  came  about  that  in  the  last  week 
before  war,  when  events  moved  most  rapidly, 
Harold  March  found  himself  one  of  a  sort  of 
small  house  party  of  the  people  he  was  pro- 
posing to  denounce.  They  were  living  simply 
enough,  for  people  with  their  tastes,  in  an  old 
brown-brick  inn  faced  with  ivy  and  surrounded 
233 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

by  rather  dismal  gardens.  At  the  back  of  the 
building  the  garden  ran  up  very  steeply  to  a 
road  along  the  ridge  above;  and  a  zigzag  path 
scaled  the  slope  in  sharp  angles,  turning  to  and 
fro  amid  evergreens  so  somber  that  they  might 
rather  be  called  everblack.  Here  and  there  up 
the  slope  were  statues  having  all  the  cold  mon- 
strosity of  such  minor  ornaments  of  the  eight- 
eenth century;  and  a  whole  row  of  them  ran  as 
on  a  terrace  along  the  last  bank  at  the  bottom, 
opposite  the  back  door.  This  detail  fixed  itself 
first  in  March's  mind  merely  because  it  figured 
in  the  first  conversation  he  had  with  one  of  the 
cabinet  ministers. 

The  cabinet  ministers  were  rather  older  than 
he  had  expected  to  find  them.  The  Prime  Minis- 
ter no  longer  looked  like  a  boy,  though  he  still 
looked  a  little  like  a  baby.  But  it  was  one  of 
those  old  and  venerable  babies,  and  the  baby 
had  soft  gray  hair.  Everything  about  him  was 
soft,  to  his  speech  and  his  way  of  walking;  but 
over  and  above  that  his  chief  function  seemed 
to  be  sleep.  People  left  alone  with  him  got  so 
used  to  his  eyes  being  closed  that  they  were 
almost  startled  when  they  realized  in  the  still- 
ness that  the  eyes  were  wide  open,  and  even 
watching.  One  thing  at  least  would  always  make 
the  old  gentleman  open  his  eyes.  The  one  thing 
he  really  cared  for  in  this  world  was  his  hobby 
of  armored  weapons,  especially  Eastern  weapons, 
234 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

and  he  would  talk  for  hours  about  Damascus 
blades  and  Arab  swordmanship.  Lord  James 
Herries,  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  was  a 
short,  dark,  sturdy  man  with  a  very  sallow  face 
and  a  very  sullen  manner,  which  contrasted  with 
the  gorgeous  flower  in  his  buttonhole  and  his 
festive  trick  of  being  always  slightly  overdressed. 
It  was  something  of  a  euphemism  to  call  him 
a  well-known  man  about  town.  There  was  per- 
haps more  mystery  in  the  question  of  how  a  man 
who  lived  for  pleasure  seemed  to  get  so  little 
pleasure  out  of  it.  Sir  David  Archer,  the 
Foreign  Secretary,  was  the  only  one  of  them 
who  was  a  self-made  man,  and  the  only  one  of 
them  who  looked  like  an  aristocrat.  He  was 
tall  and  thin  and  very  handsome,  with  a  grizzled 
beard ;  his  gray  hair  was  very  curly,  and  even  rose 
in  front  in  two  rebellious  ringlets  that  seemed 
to  the  fanciful  to  tremble  like  the  antennae  of 
some  giant  insect,  or  to  stir  sympathetically  with 
the  restless  tufted  eyebrows  over  his  rather  hag- 
gard eyes.  For  the  Foreign  Secretary  made  no 
secret  of  his  somewhat  nervous  condition,  what- 
ever might  be  the  cause  of  it. 

"Do  you  know  that  mood  when  one  could 
scream  because  a  mat  is  crooked?'*  he  said  to 
March,  as  they  walked  up  and  down  in  the  back 
garden  below  the  line  of  dingy  statues.  "Women 
get  into  it  when  they've  worked  too  hard;  and 
I've  been  working  pretty  hard  lately,  of  course. 
235 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

It  drives  me  mad  when  Herries  will  wear  his  hat 
a  little  crooked — habit  of  looking  like  a  gay  dog. 
Sometime  I  swear  I'll  knock  it  off.  That  statue 
of  Britannia  over  there  isn't  quite  straight;  it 
sticks  forward  a  bit  as  if  the  lady  were  going  to 
topple  over.  The  damned  thing  is  that  it  doesn't 
topple  over  and  be  done  with  it.  See,  it's 
clamped  with  an  iron  prop.  Don't  be  surprised 
if  I  get  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  hike  it 
down." 

They  paced  the  path  for  a  few  moments  in 
silence  and  then  he  continued.  "It's  odd  those 
little  things  seem  specially  big  when  there  are 
bigger  things  to  worry  about.  We'd  better  go 
in  and  do  some  work." 

Home  Fisher  evidently  allowed  for  all  the 
neurotic  possibilities  of  Archer  and  the  dissipated 
habits  of  Herries;  and  whatever  his  faith  in  their 
present  firmness,  did  not  unduly  tax  their  time 
and  attention,  even  in  the  case  of  the  Prime 
Minister.  He  had  got  the  consent  of  the  latter 
finally  to  the  committing  of  the  important  docu- 
ments, with  the  orders  to  the  Western  armies, 
to  the  care  of  a  less  conspicuous  and  more  solid 
person — an  uncle  of  his  named  Home  Hewitt,  a 
rather  colorless  country  squire  who  had  been  a 
good  soldier,  and  was  the  military  adviser  of  the 
committee.  He  was  charged  with  expediting 
the  government  pledge,  along  with  the  concerted 
military  plans,  to  the  half-mutinous  command  in 
236 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

the  west;  and  the  still  more  urgent  task  of  see- 
ing that  it  did  not  fall  into  the  hands  of  the 
enemy,  who  might  appear  at  any  moment  from 
the  east.  Over  and  above  this  military  official, 
the  only  other  person  present  was  a  police  official, 
a  certain  Doctor  Prince,  originally  a  police 
surgeon  and  now  a  distinguished  detective,  sent 
to  be  a  bodyguard  to  the  group.  He  was  a 
square-faced  man  with  big  spectacles  and  a  gri- 
mace that  expressed  the  intention  of  keeping  his 
mouth  shut.  Nobody  else  shared  their  cap- 
tivity except  the  hotel  proprietor,  a  crusty  Kent- 
ish man  with  a  crab-apple  face,  one  or  two  of  his 
servants,  and  another  servant  privately  attached 
to  Lord  James  Herries.  He  was  a  young 
Scotchman  named  Campbell,  who  looked  much 
more  distinguished  than  his  bilious-looking  mas- 
ter, having  chestnut  hair  and  a  long  saturnine 
face  with  large  but  fine  features.  He  was  prob- 
ably the  one  really  efficient  person  in  the  house. 
After  about  four  days  of  the  informal  coun- 
cil, March  had  come  to  feel  a  sort  of  grotesque 
sublimity  about  these  dubious  figures,  defiant  in 
the  twilight  of  danger,  as  if  they  were  hunch- 
backs and  cripples  left  alone  to  defend  a  town. 
All  were  working  hard;  and  he  himself  looked 
up  from  writing  a  page  of  memoranda  in  a  pri- 
vate room  to  see  Home  Fisher  standing  in  the 
doorway,  accoutered  as  if  for  travel.  He  fan- 
cied that  Fisher  looked  a  little  pale;  and  after 
237 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

a  moment  that  gentleman  shut  the  door  behind 
him  and  said,  quietly : 

"Well,  the  worst  has  happened.  Or  nearly 
the  worst." 

uThe  enemy  has  landed,"  cried  March,  and 
sprang  erect  out  of  his  chair. 

"Oh,  I  knew  the  enemy  would  land,"  said 
Fisher,  with  composure.  "Yes,  he's  landed; 
but  that's  not  the  worst  that  could  happen.  The 
worst  is  that  there's  a  leak  of  some  sort,  even 
from  this  fortress  of  ours.  It's  been  a  bit  of  a 
shock  to  me,  I  can  tell  you;  though  I  suppose  it's 
illogical.  After  all,  I  was  full  of  admiration  at 
finding  three  honest  men  in  politics.  I  ought  not 
to  be  full  of  astonishment  if  I  find  only  two." 

He  ruminated  a  moment  and  then  said,  in 
such  a  fashion  that  March  could  hardly  tell  if 
he  were  changing  the  subject  or  no: 

"It's  hard  at  first  to  believe  that  a  fellow  like 
Herries,  who  had  pickled  himself  in  vice  like 
vinegar,  can  have  any  scruple  left.  But  about 
that  I've  noticed  a  curious  thing.  Patriotism  is 
not  the  first  virtue.  Patriotism  rots  into  Prus- 
sianism  when  you  pretend  it  is  the  first  virtue. 
But  patriotism  is  sometimes  the  last  virtue.  A 
man  will  swindle  or  seduce  who  will  not  sell  his 
country.    But  who  knows  ?" 

"But  what  is  to  be  done?"  cried  March,  in- 
dignantly. 

"My  uncle  has  the  papers  safe  enough,"  re- 
238 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

plied  Fisher,  "and  is  sending  them  west  to-night; 
but  somebody  is  trying  to  get  at  them  from  out- 
side, I  fear  with  the  assistance  of  somebody  in- 
side. All  I  can  do  at  present  is  to  try  to  head 
off  the  man  outside;  and  I  must  get  away  now 
and  do  it.  I  shall  be  back  in  about  twenty-four 
hours.  While  I'm  away  I  want  you  to  keep  an 
eye  on  these  people  and  find  out  what  you  can. 
Au  revoir."  He  vanished  down  the  stairs;  and 
from  the  window  March  could  see  him  mount 
a  motor  cycle  and  trail  away  toward  the  neigh- 
boring town. 

On  the  following  morning,  March  was  sitting 
in  the  window  seat  of  the  old  inn  parlor,  which 
was  oak-paneled  and  ordinarily  rather  dark;  but 
on  that  occasion  it  was  full  of  the  white  light 
of  a  curiously  clear  morning — the  moon  had 
shone  brilliantly  for  the  last  two  or  three  nights. 
He  was  himself  somewhat  in  shadow  in  the  cor- 
ner of  the  window  seat;  and  Lord  James  Herries, 
coming  in  hastily  from  the  garden  behind,  did 
not  see  him.  Lord  James  clutched  the  back  of 
a  chair,  as  if  to  steady  himself,  and,  sitting  down 
abruptly  at  the  table,  littered  with  the  last  meal, 
poured  himself  out  a  tumbler  of  brandy  and 
drank  it.  He  sat  with  his  back  to  March,  but 
his  yellow  face  appeared  in  a  round  mirror  be- 
yond and  the  tinge  of  it  was  like  that  of  some 
horrible  malady.  As  March  moved  he  started 
violently  and  faced  round. 
239 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"My  God!"  he  cried,  "have  you  seen  what's 
outside?" 

"Outside?"  repeated  the  other,  glancing  over 
his  shoulder  at  the  garden. 

"Oh,  go  and  look  for  yourself,"  cried  Her- 
ries  in  a  sort  of  fury.  "Hewitt's  murdered  and 
his  papers  stolen,  that's  all." 

He  turned  his  back  again  and  sat  down  with 
a  thud;  his  square  shoulders  were  shaking. 
Harold  March  darted  out  of  the  doorway  into 
the  back  garden  with  its  steep  slope  of  statues. 

The  first  thing  he  saw  was  Doctor  Prince,  the 
detective,  peering  through  his  spectacles  at  some- 
thing on  the  ground;  the  second  was  the  thing 
he  was  peering  at.  Even  after  the  sensational 
news  he  had  heard  inside,  the  sight  was  some- 
thing of  a  sensation. 

The  monstrous  stone  image  of  Britannia  was 
lying  prone  and  face  downward  on  the  garden 
path ;  and  there  stuck  out  at  random  from  under- 
neath it,  like  the  legs  of  a  smashed  fly,  an  arm 
clad  in  a  white  shirt  sleeve  and  a  leg  clad  in  a 
khaki  trouser,  and  hair  of  the  unmistakable 
sandy  gray  that  belonged  to  Home  Fisher's  un- 
fortunate uncle.  There  were  pools  of  blood  and 
the  limbs  were  quite  stiff  in  death. 

"Couldn't  this  have  been  an  accident?"  said 
March,  finding  words  at  last. 

"Look  for  yourself,  I  say,"  repeated  the  harsh 
voice  of  Herries,  who  had  followed  him  with 
240 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

restless  movements  out  of  the  door.  "The 
papers  are  gone,  I  tell  you.  The  fellow  tore 
the  coat  off  the  corpse  and  cut  the  papers  out  of 
the  inner  pocket.  There's  the  coat  over  there 
on  the  bank,  with  the  great  slash  in  it." 

"But  wait  a  minute,"  said  the  detective, 
Prince,  quietly.  "In  that  case  there  seems  to  be 
something  of  a  mystery.  A  murderer  might 
somehow  have  managed  to  throw  the  statue 
down  on  him,  as  he  seems  to  have  done.  But 
I  bet  he  couldn't  easily  have  lifted  it  up  again. 
I've  tried;  and  I'm  sure  it  would  want  three  men 
at  least.  Yet  we  must  suppose,  on  that  theory, 
that  the  murderer  first  knocked  him  down  as  he 
walked  past,  using  the  statue  as  a  stone  club, 
then  lifted  it  up  again,  took  him  out  and  de- 
prived him  of  his  coat,  then  put  him  back  again 
in  the  posture  of  death  and  neatly  replaced  the 
statue.  I  tell  you  it's  physically  impossible. 
And  how  else  could  he  have  unclothed  a  man 
covered  with  that  stone  monument?  It's  worse 
than  the  conjurer's  trick,  when  a  man  shuffles  a 
coat  off  with  his  wrists  tied." 

"Could  he  have  thrown  down  the  statue  after 
he'd  stripped  the  corpse?"  asked  March. 

"And  why?"  asked  Prince,  sharply.  "If  he'd 
killed  his  man  and  got  his  papers,  he'd  be  away 
like  the  wind.  He  wouldn't  potter  about  in  a 
garden  excavating  the  pedestals  of  statues.  Be- 
sides— Hullo,  who's  that  up  there?" 
241 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

High  on  the  ridge  above  them,  drawn  in  dark 
thin  lines  against  the  sky,  was  a  figure  looking 
so  long  and  lean  as  to  be  almost  spidery.  The 
dark  silhouette  of  the  head  showed  two  small 
tufts  like  horns;  and  they  could  almost  have 
sworn  that  the  horns  moved. 

"Archer  I"  shouted  Herries,  with  sudden  pas- 
sion, and  called  to  him  with  curses  to  come  down. 
The  figure  drew  back  at  the  first  cry,  with  an 
agitated  movement  so  abrupt  as  almost  to  be 
called  an  antic.  The  next  moment  the  man 
seemed  to  reconsider  and  collect  himself,  and 
began  to  come  down  the  zigzag  garden  path, 
but  with  obvious  reluctance,  his  feet  falling  in 
slower  and  slower  rhythm.  Through  March's 
mind  were  throbbing  the  phrases  that  this  man 
himself  had  used,  about  going  mad  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  and  wrecking  the  stone  figure.  Just 
so,  he  could  fancy,  the  maniac  who  had  done 
such  a  thing  might  climb  the  crest  of  the  hill, 
in  that  feverish  dancing  fashion,  and  look  down 
on  the  wreck  he  had  made.  But  the  wreck  he 
had  made  here  was  not  only  a  wreck  of  stone. 

When  the  man  emerged  at  last  on  to  the 
garden  path,  with  the  full  light  on  his  face  and 
figure,  he  was  walking  slowly  indeed,  but  easily, 
and  with  no  appearance  of  fear. 

"This  is  a  terrible  thing,"  he  said.  "I  saw 
it  from  above;  I  was  taking  a  stroll  along  the 
ridge." 

242 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  saw  the  murder?" 
demanded  March,  "or  the  accident?  I  mean 
did  you  see  the  statue  fall?" 

"No,"  said  Archer,  "I  mean  I  saw  the  statue 
fallen." 

Prince  seemed  to  be  paying  but  little  atten- 
tion; his  eye  was  riveted  on  an  object  lying  on 
the  path  a  yard  or  two  from  the  corpse.  It 
seemed  to  be  a  rusty  iron  bar  bent  crooked  at 
one  end. 

"One  thing  I  don't  understand,"  he  said,  "is 
all  this  blood.  The  poor  fellow's  skull  isn't 
smashed;  most  likely  his  neck  is  broken;  but 
blood  seems  to  have  spouted  as  if  all  his  arteries 
were  severed.  I  was  wondering  if  some  other 
instrument  .  .  .  that  iron  thing,  for  instance; 
but  I  don't  see  that  even  that  is  sharp  enough. 
I  suppose  nobody  knows  what  it  is." 

rtI  know  what  it  is,"  said  Archer  in  his  deep 
but  somewhat  shaky  voice.  "I've  seen  it  in  my 
nightmares.  It  was  the  iron  clamp  or  prop  on 
the  pedestal,  stuck  on  to  keep  the  wretched 
image  upright  when  it  began  to  wabble,  I  sup- 
pose. Anyhow,  it  was  always  stuck  in  the  stone- 
work there ;  and  I  suppose  it  came  out  when  the 
thing  collapsed." 

Doctor  Prince  nodded,  but  he  continued  to 
look  down  at  the  pools  of  blood  and  the  bar  of 
iron. 

"I'm  certain  there's  something  more  under- 
243 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

neath  all  this,"  he  said  at  last.  "Perhaps  some- 
thing more  underneath  the  statue.  I  have  a 
huge  sort  of  hunch  that  there  is.  We  are  four 
men  now  and  between  us  we  can  lift  that  great 
tombstone  there." 

They  all  bent  their  strength  to  the  business; 
there  was  a  silence  save  for  heavy  breathing; 
and  then,  after  an  instant  of  the  tottering  and 
staggering  of  eight  legs,  the  great  carven  column 
of  rock  was  rolled  away,  and  the  body  lying  in 
its  shirt  and  trousers  was  fully  revealed.  The 
spectacles  of  Doctor  Prince  seemed  almost  to  en- 
large with  a  restrained  radiance  like  great  eyes ; 
for  other  things  were  revealed  also.  One  was 
that  the  unfortunate  Hewitt  had  a  deep  gash 
across  the  jugular,  which  the  triumphant  doctor 
instantly  identified  as  having  been  made  with  a 
sharp  steel  edge  like  a  razor.  The  other  was 
that  immediately  under  the  bank  lay  littered 
three  shining  scraps  of  steel,  each  nearly  a  foot 
long,  one  pointed  and  another  fitted  into  a  gorge- 
ously jeweled  hilt  or  handle.  It  was  evidently  a 
sort  of  long  Oriental  knife,  long  enough  to  be 
called  a  sword,  but  with  a  curious  wavy  edge; 
and  there  was  a  touch  or  two  of  blood  on  the 
point. 

"I  should  have  expected  more  blood,  hardly 
on  the  point,"  observed  Doctor  Prince,  thought- 
fully, "but  this  is  certainly  the  instrument.  The 
slash  was  certainly  made  with  a  weapon  shaped 
244 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

like  this,  and  probably  the  slashing  of  the  pocket 
as  well.  I  suppose  the  brute  threw  in  the  statue, 
by  way  of  giving  him  a  public  funeral." 

March  did  not  answer;  he  was  mesmerized  by 
the  strange  stones  that  glittered  on  the  strange 
sword  hilt;  and  their  possible  significance  was 
broadening  upon  him  like  a  dreadful  dawn.  It 
was  a  curious  Asiatic  weapon.  He  knew  what 
name  was  connected  in  his  memory  with  curious 
Asiatic  weapons.  Lord  James  spoke  his  secret 
thought  for  him,  and  yet  it  startled  him  like  an 
irrelevance. 

"Where  is  the  Prime  Minister?"  Herries  had 
cried,  suddenly,  and  somehow  like  the  bark  of  a 
dog  at  some  discovery. 

Doctor  Prince  turned  on  him  his  goggles  and 
his  grim  face ;  and  it  was  grimmer  than  ever. 

"I  cannot  find  him  anywhere,"  he  said.  "I 
looked  for  him  at  once,  as  soon  as  I  found  the 
papers  were  gone.  That  servant  of  yours,  Camp- 
bell, made  a  most  efficient  search,  but  there  are 
no  traces." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  at  the  end  of  which 
Herries  uttered  another  cry,  but  upon  an  en- 
tirely new  note. 

"Well,  you  needn't  look  for  him  any  longer," 
he  said,  "for  here  he  comes,  along  with  your 
friend  Fisher.  They  look  as  if  they'd  been  for 
a  little  walking  tour." 

The  two  figures  approaching  up  the  path  were 
245 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

indeed  those  of  Fisher,  splashed  with  the  mire 
of  travel  and  carrying  a  scratch  like  that  of  a 
bramble  across  one  side  of  his  bald  forehead, 
and  of  the  great  and  gray-haired  statesman  who 
looked  like  a  baby  and  was  interested  in  Eastern 
swords  and  swordmanship.  But  beyond  this 
bodily  recognition,  March  could  make  neither 
head  nor  tail  of  their  presence  or  demeanor; 
which  seemed  to  give  a  final  touch  of  nonsense 
to  the  whole  nightmare.  The  more  closely  he 
watched  them,  as  they  stood  listening  to  the 
revelations  of  the  detective,  the  more  puzzled 
he  was  by  their  attitude — Fisher  seemed  grieved 
by  the  death  of  his  uncle,  but  hardly  shocked  at 
it;  the  older  man  seemed  almost  openly  think- 
ing about  something  else,  and  neither  had  any- 
thing to  suggest  about  a  further  pursuit  of  the 
fugitive  spy  and  murderer,  in  spite  of  the  pro- 
digious importance  of  the  documents  he  had 
stolen.  When  the  detective  had  gone  off  to  busy 
himself  with  that  department  of  the  business, 
to  telephone  and  write  his  report,  when  Herries 
had  gone  back,  probably  to  the  brandy  bottle, 
and  the  Prime  Minister  had  blandly  sauntered 
away  toward  a  comfortable  armchair  in  another 
part  of  the  garden,  Home  Fisher  spoke  directly 
to  Harold  March. 

"My  friend,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  come 
with  me  at  once ;  there  is  no  one  else  I  can  trust 
so  much  as  that.    The  journey  will  take  us  most 
246 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

of  the  day,  and  the  chief  business  cannot  be  done 
till  nightfall.  So  we  can  talk  things  over  thor- 
oughly on  the  way.  But  I  want  you  to  be  with 
me ;  for  I  rather  think  it  is  my  hour." 

March  and  Fisher  both  had  motor  bicycles; 
and  the  first  half  of  their  day's  journey  consisted 
in  coasting  eastward  amid  the  unconversational 
noise  of  those  uncomfortable  engines.  But  when 
they  came  out  beyond  Canterbury  into  the  flats 
of  eastern  Kent,  Fisher  stopped  at  a  pleasant 
little  public  house  beside  a  sleepy  stream;  and 
they  sat  down  to  eat  and  to  drink  and  to  speak 
almost  for  the  first  time.  It  was  a  brilliant 
afternoon,  birds  were  singing  in  the  wood  be- 
hind, and  the  sun  shone  full  on  their  ale  bench 
and  table;  but  the  face  of  Fisher  in  the  strong 
sunlight  had  a  gravity  never  seen  on  it  before. 

"Before  we  go  any  farther,"  he  said,  "there 
is  something  you  ought  to  know.  You  and  I 
have  seen  some  mysterious  things  and  got  to  the 
bottom  of  them  before  now;  and  it's  only  right 
that  you  should  get  to  the  bottom  of  this  one. 
But  in  dealing  with  the  death  of  my  uncle  I  must 
begin  at  the  other  end  from  where  our  old  de- 
tective  yarns  began.  I  will  give  you  the  steps 
of  deduction  presently,  if  you  want  to  listen  to 
them;  but  I  did  not  reach  the  truth  of  this  by 
steps  of  deduction.  I  will  first  of  all  tell  you  the 
truth  itself,  because  I  knew  the  truth  from  the 
first.  The  other  cases  I  approached  from  the 
17  247 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

outside,  but  in  this  case  I  was  inside.     I  myself 
was  the  very  core  and  center  of  everything.'* 

Something  in  the  speaker's  pendent  eyelids 
and  grave  gray  eyes  suddenly  shook  March  to 
his  foundations;  and  he  cried,  distractedly,  "I 
don't  understand!"  as  men  do  when  they  fear 
that  they  do  understand.  There  was  no  sound 
for  a  space  but  the  happy  chatter  of  the  birds, 
and  then  Home  Fisher  said,  calmly : 

"It  was  I  who  killed  my  uncle.  If  you  par- 
ticularly want  more,  it  was  I  who  stole  the  state 
papers  from  him." 

"Fisher!"  cried  his  friend  in  a  strangled 
voice. 

"Let  me  tell  you  the  whole  thing  before  we 
part,"  continued  the  other,  "and  let  me  put  it, 
for  the  sake  of  clearness,  as  we  used  to  put  our 
old  problems.  Now  there  are  two  things  that 
are  puzzling  people  about  that  problem,  aren't 
there?  The  first  is  how  the  murderer  managed 
to  slip  off  the  dead  man's  coat,  when  he  was 
already  pinned  to  the  ground  with  that  stone 
incubus.  The  other,  which  is  much  smaller  and 
less  puzzling,  is  the  fact  of  the  sword  that  cut 
his  throat  being  slightly  stained  at  the  point, 
instead  of  a  good  deal  more  stained  at  the  edge. 
Well,  I  can  dispose  of  the  first  question  easily. 
Home  Hewitt  took  off  his  own  coat  before  he 
was  killed.  I  might  say  he  took  off  his  coat  to 
be  killed." 

248 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

"Do  you  call  that  an  explanation  ?"  exclaimed 
March.  "The  words  seem  more  meaningless 
than  the  facts." 

"Well,  let  us  go  on  to  the  other  facts,"  con- 
tinued Fisher,  equably.  "The  reason  that  par- 
ticular sword  is  not  stained  at  the  edge  with 
Hewitt's  blood  is  that  it  was  not  used  to  kill 
Hewitt." 

"But  the  doctor,"  protested  March,  "declared 
distinctly  that  the  wound  was  made  by  that  par- 
ticular sword." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  replied  Fisher.  "He 
did  not  declare  that  it  was  made  by  that  par- 
ticular sword.  He  declared  it  was  made  by  a 
sword  of  that  particular  pattern." 

"But  it  was  quite  a  queer  and  exceptional  pat- 
tern," argued  March;  "surely  it  is  far  too  fan- 
tastic a  coincidence  to  imagine " 

"It  was  a  fantastic  coincidence,"  reflected 
Home  Fisher.  "It's  extraordinary  what  co- 
incidences do  sometimes  occur.  By  the  oddest 
,  chance  in  the  world,  by  one  chance  in  a  million, 
it  so  happened  that  another  sword  of  exactly 
the  same  shape  was  in  the  same  garden  at  the 
same  time.  It  may  be  partly  explained  by  the 
fact  that  I  brought  them  both  into  the  garden 
myself  .  .  .  come,  my  dear  fellow;  surely  you 
can  see  now  what  it  means.  Put  jhose  two 
things  together;  there  were  two  duplicate 
swords  and  he  took  off  his  coat  for  himself.  It 
249 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

may  assist  your  speculations  to  recall  the  fact 
that  I  am  not  exactly  an  assassin." 

UA  duel!"  exclaimed  March,  recovering  him- 
self. "Of  course  I  ought  to  have  thought  of 
that.  But  who  was  the  spy  who  stole  the 
papers?" 

"My  uncle  was  the  spy  who  stole  the  papers," 
replied  Fisher,  "or  who  tried  to  steal  the  papers 
when  I  stopped  him — in  the  only  way  I  could. 
The  papers,  that  should  have  gone  west  to  re- 
assure our  friends  and  give  them  the  plans  for 
repelling  the  invasion,  would  in  a  few  hours 
have  been  in  the  hands  of  the  invader.  What 
could  I  do?  To  have  denounced  one  of  our 
friends  at  this  moment  would  have  been  to  play 
into  the  hands  of  your  friend  Attwood,  and  all 
the  party  of  panic  and  slavery.  Besides,  it  may 
be  that  a  man  over  forty  has  a  subconscious 
desire  to  die  as  he  has  lived,  and  that  I  wanted, 
in  a  sense,  to  carry  my  secrets  to  the  grave.  Per- 
haps a  hobby  hardens  with  age;  and  my  hobby 
has  been  silence.  Perhaps  I  feel  that  I  have 
killed  my  mother's  brother,  but  I  have  saved  my 
mother's  name.  Anyhow,  I  chose  a  time  when 
I  knew  you  were  all  asleep,  and  he  was  walking 
alone  in  the  garden.  I  saw  all  the  stone  statues 
standing  in  the  moonlight;  and  I  myself  was  like 
one  of  those  stone  statues  walking.  In  a  voice 
that  was  not  my  own,  I  told  him  of  his  treason 
and  demanded  the  papers;  and  when  he  refused, 
250 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

I  forced  him  to  take  one  of  the  two  swords. 
The  swords  were  among  some  specimens  sent 
down  here  for  the  Prime  Minister's  inspection; 
he  is  a  collector,  you  know;  they  were  the  only 
equal  weapons  I  could  find.  To  cut  an  ugly  tale 
short,  we  fought  there  on  the  path  in  front  of 
the  Britannia  statue;  he  was  a  man  of  great 
strength,  but  I  had  somewhat  the  advantage  in 
skill.  His  sword  grazed  my  forehead  almost 
at  the  moment  when  mine  sank  into  the  joint  in 
his  neck.  He  fell  against  the  statue,  like  Caesar 
against  Pompey's,  hanging  on  to  the  iron  rail; 
his  sword  was  already  broken.  When  I  saw  the 
blood  from  that  deadly  wound,  everything  else 
went  from  me;  I  dropped  my  sword  and  ran 
as  if  to  lift  him  up.  As  I  bent  toward  him  some- 
thing happened  too  quick  for  me  to  follow.  I 
do  not  know  whether  the  iron  bar  was  rotted 
with  rust  and  came  away  in  his  hand,  or  whether 
he  rent  it  out  of  the  rock  with  his  apelike 
strength;  but  the  thing  was  in  his  hand, *  and 
with  his  dying  energies  he  swung  it  over  my 
head,  as  I  knelt  there  unarmed  beside  him.  I 
looked  up  wildly  to  avoid  the  blow,  and  saw 
above  us  the  great  bulk  of  Britannia  leaning  out- 
ward like  the  figurehead  of  a  ship.  The  next 
instant  I  saw  it  was  leaning  an  inch  or  two  more 
than  usual,  and  all  the  skies  with  their  outstand- 
ing stars  seemed  to  be  leaning  with  it.  For  the 
third  second  it  was  as  if  the  skies  fell;  and  in 
251 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

the  fourth  I  was  standing  in  the  quiet  garden, 
looking  down  on  that  flat  ruin  of  stone  and  bone 
at  which  you  were  looking  to-day.  He  had 
plucked  out  the  last  prop  that  held  up  the  British 
goddess,  and  she  had  fallen  and  crushed  the 
traitor  in  her  fall.  I  turned  and  darted  for  the 
coat  which  I  knew  to  contain  the  package,  ripped 
it  up  with  my  sword,  and  raced  away  up  the 
garden  path  to  where  my  motor  bike  was  wait- 
ing on  the  road  above.  I  had  every  reason 
for  haste;  but  I  fled  without  looking  back 
at  the  statue  and  the  body;  and  I  think  the 
thing  I  fled  from  was  the  sight  of  that  appall- 
ing allegory. 

"Then  I  did  the  rest  of  what  I  had  to  do.  All 
through  the  night  and  into  the  daybreak  and  the 
daylight  I  went  humming  through  the  villages 
and  markets  of  South  England  like  a  traveling 
bullet,  till  I  came  to  the  headquarters  in  the  West 
where  the  trouble  was.  I  was  just  in  time.  I 
was  able  to  placard  the  place,  so  to  speak,  with 
the  news  that  the  government  had  not  betrayed 
them,  and  that  they  would  find  supports  if  they 
would  push  eastward  against  the  enemy.  There's 
no  time  to  tell  you  all  that  happened;  but  I  tell 
you  it  was  the  day  of  my  life.  A  triumph  like  a 
torchlight  procession,  with  torchlights  that  might 
have  been  firebrands.  The  mutinies  simmered 
down;  the  men  of  Somerset  and  the  western 
counties  came  pouring  into  the  market  places;  the 
252 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

men  who  died  with  Arthur  and  stood  firm  with 
Alfred.  The  Irish  regiments  rallied  to  them, 
after  a  scene  like  a  riot,  and  marched  eastward 
out  of  the  town  singing  Fenian  songs.  There 
was  all  that  is  not  understood,  about  the  dark 
laughter  of  that  people,  in  the  delight  with 
which,  even  when  marching  with  the  English  to 
the  defense  of  England,  they  shouted  at  the  top 
of  their  voices,  'High  upon  the  gallows  tree 
stood  the  noble-hearted  three  .  .  .  With  Eng- 
land's cruel  cord  about  them  cast.'  However, 
the  chorus  was  'God  save  Ireland,'  and  we  could 
all  have  sung  that  just  then,  in  one  sense  or  an- 
other. 

"But  there  was  another  side  to  my  mission. 
I  carried  the  plans  of  the  defense;  and  to  a  great 
extent,  luckily,  the  plans  of  the  invasion  also. 
I  won't  worry  you  with  strategics ;  but  we  knew 
where  the  enemy  had  pushed  forward  the  great 
battery  that  covered  all  his  movements;  and 
though  our  friends  from  the  West  could  hardly 
arrive  in  time  to  intercept  the  main  movement, 
they  might  get  within  long  artillery  range  of  the 
battery  and  shell  it,  if  they  only  knew  exactly 
where  it  was.  They  could  hardly  tell  that  un- 
less somebody  round  about  here  sent  up  some 
sort  of  signal.  But,  somehow,  I  rather  fancy 
that  somebody  will." 

With  that  he  got  up  from  the  table,  and  they 
remounted  their  machines  and  went  eastward 
253 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

into  the  advancing  twilight  of  evening.  The 
levels  of  the  landscape  were  repeated  in  flat 
strips  of  floating  cloud  and  the  last  colors  of 
day  clung  to  the  circle  of  the  horizon.  Reced- 
ing farther  and  farther  behind  them  was  the 
semicircle  of  the  last  hills;  and  it  was  quite  sud- 
denly that  they  saw  afar  off  the  dim  line  of  the 
sea.  It  was  not  a  strip  of  bright  blue  as  they 
had  seen  it  from  the  sunny  veranda,  but  of  a 
sinister  and  smoky  violet,  a  tint  that  seemed 
ominous  and  dark.  Here  Home  Fisher  dis- 
mounted once  more. 

"We  must  walk  the  rest  of  the  way,"  he  said, 
"and  the  last  bit  of  all  I  must  walk  alone.'* 

He  bent  down  and  began  to  unstrap  some- 
thing from  his  bicycle.  It  was  something  that 
had  puzzled  his  companion  all  the  way  in  spite 
of  what  held  him  to  more  interesting  riddles; 
it  appeared  to  be  several  lengths  of  pole  strapped 
together  and  wrapped  up  in  paper.  Fisher  took 
it  under  his  arm  and  began  to  pick  his  way  across 
the  turf.  The  ground  was  growing  more  tum- 
bled and  irregular  and  he  was  walking  toward  a 
mass  of  thickets  and  small  woods;  night  grew 
darker  every  moment.  "We  must  not  talk  any 
more,"  said  Fisher.  WI  shall  whisper  to  you 
when  you  are  to  halt.  Don't  try  to  follow  me 
then,  for  it  will  only  spoil  the  show;  one  man 
can  barely  crawl  safely  to  the  spot,  and  two 
would  certainly  be  caught." 
254 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

"I  would  follow  you  anywhere,"  replied 
March,  "but  I  would  halt,  too,  if  that  is  better." 

"I  know  you  would,"  said  his  friend  in  a  low 
voice.  "Perhaps  you're  the  only  man  I  ever 
quite  trusted  in  this  world." 

A  few  paces  farther  on  they  came  to  the  end 
of  a  great  ridge  or  mound  looking  monstrous 
against  the  dim  sky;  and  Fisher  stopped  with  a 
gesture.  He  caught  his  companion's  hand  and 
wrung  it  with  a  violent  tenderness,  and  then 
darted  forward  into  the  darkness.  March  could 
faintly  see  his  figure  crawling  along  under  the 
shadow  of  the  ridge,  then  he  lost  sight  of  it, 
and  then  he  saw  it  again  standing  on  another 
mound  two  hundred  yards  away.  Beside  him 
stood  a  singular  erection  made  apparently  of 
two  rods.  He  bent  over  it  and  there  was  the 
flare  of  a  light;  all  March's  schoolboy  memories 
woke  in  him,  and  he  knew  what  it  was.  It  was 
the  stand  of  a  rocket.  The  confused,  incongru- 
ous memories  still  possessed  him  up  to  the  very 
moment  of  a  fierce  but  familiar  sound;  and  an 
instant  after  the  rocket  left  its  perch  and  went 
up  into  endless  space  like  a  starry  arrow  aimed 
at  the  stars.  March  thought  suddenly  of  the 
signs  of  the  last  days  and  knew  he  was  looking 
at  the  apocalyptic  meteor  of  something  like  a 
Day  of  Judgment. 

Far  up  in  the  infinite  heavens  the  rocket 
drooped  and  sprang  into  scarlet  stars.  For  a 
255 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

moment  the  whole  landscape  out  to  the  sea 
and  back  to  the  crescent  of  the  wooded  hills  was 
like  a  lake  of  ruby  light,  of  a  red  strangely  rich 
and  glorious,  as  if  the  world  were  steeped  in 
wine  rather  than  blood,  or  the  earth  were  an 
earthly  paradise,  over  which  paused  forever  the 
sanguine  moment  of  morning. 

"God  save  England!"  cried  Fisher,  with  a 
tongue  like  the  peal  of  a  trumpet.  "And  now 
it  is  for  God  to  save." 

As  darkness  sank  again  over  land  and  sea 
there  came  another  sound;  far  away  in  the  passes 
of  the  hills  behind  them  the  guns  spoke  like  the 
baying  of  great  hounds.  Something  that  was  not 
a  rocket,  that  came  not  hissing  but  screaming, 
went  over  Harold  March's  head  and  expanded 
beyond  the  mound  into  light  and  deafening  din, 
staggering  the  brain  with  unbearable  brutalities 
of  noise.  Another  came,  and  then  another,  and 
the  world  was  full  of  uproar  and  volcanic  vapor 
and  chaotic  light.  The  artillery  of  the  West 
country  and  the  Irish  had  located  the  great 
enemy  battery,  and  were  pounding  it  to  pieces. 

In  the  mad  excitement  of  that  moment  March 
peered  through  the  storm,  looking  again  for 
the  long  lean  figure  that  stood  beside  the  stand 
of  the  rocket.  Then  another  flash  lit  up  the 
whole  ridge.    The  figure  was  not  there. 

Before  the  fires  of  the  rocket  had  faded  from 
the  sky,  long  before  the  first  gun  had  sounded 
256 


The  Vengeance  of  the  Statue 

from  the  distant  hills,  a  splutter  of  rifle  fire  had 
flashed  and  flickered  all  around  from  the  hidden 
trenches  of  the  enemy.  Something  lay  in  the 
shadow  at  the  foot  of  the  ridge,  as  stiff  as  the 
stick  of  the  fallen  rocket;  and  the  man  who 
knew  too  much  knew  what  is  worth  knowing. 


THE   TREES   OF   PRIDE 


THE   TREES   OF   PRIDE 

I 

THE  TALE  OF  THE  PEACOCK  TREES 

C  QUIRE  VANE  was  an  elderly  schoolboy  of 
^  English  education  and  Irish  extraction.  His 
English  education,  at  one  of  the  great  public 
schools,  had  preserved  his  intellect  perfectly  and 
permanently  at  the  stage  of  boyhood.  But  his 
Irish  extraction  subconsciously  upset  in  him  the 
proper  solemnity  of  an  old  boy,  and  sometimes 
gave  him  back  the  brighter  outlook  of  a  naughty 
boy.  He  had  a  bodily  impatience  which  played 
tricks  upon  him  almost  against  his  will,  and  had 
already  rendered  him  rather  too  radiant  a  failure 
in  civil  and  diplomatic  service.  Thus  it  is  true 
that  compromise  is  the  key  of  British  policy, 
especially  as  effecting  an  impartiality  among  the 
religions  of  India;  but  Vane's  attempt  to  meet 
the  Moslem  halfway  by  kicking  off  one  boot  at 
the  gates  of  the  mosque,  was  felt  not  so  much  to 
indicate  true  impartiality  as  something  that  could 
only  be  called  an  aggressive  indifference.  Again, 
it  is  true  that  an  English  aristocrat  can  hardly 
enter  fully  into  the  feelings  of  either  party  in  a 
261 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

quarrel  between  a  Russian  Jew  and  an  Orthodox 
procession  carrying  relics;  but  Vane's  idea  that 
the  procession  might  carry  the  Jew  as  well,  him- 
self a  venerable  and  historic  relic,  was  misunder- 
stood on  both  sides.  In  short,  he  was  a  man  who 
particularly  prided  himself  on  having  no  non- 
sense about  him;  with  the  result  that  he  was 
always  doing  nonsensical  things.  He  seemed  to 
be  standing  on  his  head  merely  to  prove  that  he 
was  hard-headed. 

He  had  just  finished  a  hearty  breakfast,  in  the 
society  of  his  daughter,  at  a  table  under  a  tree 
in  his  garden  by  the  Cornish  coast.  For,  having 
a  glorious  circulation,  he  insisted  on  as  many  out- 
door meals  as  possible,  though  spring  had  barely 
touched  the  woods  and  warmed  the  seas  round 
that  southern  extremity  of  England.  His  daugh- 
ter Barbara,  a  good-looking  girl  with  heavy 
red  hair  and  a  face  as  grave  as  one  of  the  garden 
statues,  still  sat  almost  motionless  as  a  statue 
when  her  father  rose.  A  fine  tall  figure  in  light 
clothes,  with  his  white  hair  and  mustache  fly- 
ing backwards  rather  fiercely  from  a  face  that 
was  good-humored  enough,  for  he  carried  his 
very  wide  Panama  hat  in  his  hand,  he  strode 
across  the  terraced  garden,  down  some  stone 
steps  flanked  with  old  ornamental  urns  to  a  more 
woodland  path  fringed  with  little  trees,  and  so 
down  a  zigzag  road  which  descended  the  craggy 
cliff  to  the  shore,  where  he  was  to  meet  a  guest 
262 


The  Tale  of  the  Peacock  Trees 

arriving  by  boat.  A  yacht  was  already  in  the  blue 
bay,  and  he  could  see  a  boat  pulling  toward  the 
little  paved  pier. 

And  yet  in  that  short  walk  between  the  green 
turf  and  the  yellow  sands  he  was  destined  to  find 
his  hard-headedness  provoked  into  a  not  unfa- 
miliar phase  which  the  world  was  inclined  to  call 
hot-headedness.  The  fact  was  that  the  Cornish 
peasantry,  who  composed  his  tenantry  and  do- 
mestic establishment,  were  far  from  being  people 
with  no  nonsense  about  them.  There  was,  alas ! 
a  great  deal  of  nonsense  about  them ;  with  ghosts, 
witches,  and  traditions  as  old  as  Merlin,  they 
seemed  to  surround  him  with  a  fairy  ring  of  non- 
sense. But  the  magic  circle  had  one  center :  there 
was  one  point  in  which  the  curving  conversation 
of  the  rustics  always  returned.  It  was  a  point 
that  always  pricked  the  Squire  to  exasperation, 
and  even  in  this  short  walk  he  seemed  to  strike 
it  everywhere.  He  paused  before  descending  the 
steps  from  the  lawn  to  speak  to  the  gardener 
about  potting  some  foreign  shrubs,  and  the 
gardener  seemed  to  be  gloomily  gratified,  in 
every  line  of  his  leathery  brown  visage,  at  the 
chance  of  indicating  that  he  had  formed  a  low 
opinion  of  foreign  shrubs. 

"We  wish  you'd  get  rid  of  what  you've  got 
here,  sir,"  he  observed,  digging  doggedly. 
"Nothing'll  grow  right  with  them  here." 

"Shrubs!"  said  the  Squire,  laughing.  "You 
18  263 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

don't  call  the  peacock  trees  shrubs,  do  you? 
Fine  tall  trees — you  ought  to  be  proud  of 
them." 

"Ill  weeds  grow  apace,"  observed  the  gar- 
dener. "Weeds  can  grow  as  houses  when  some- 
body plants  them."  Then  he  added:  "Him  that 
sowed  tares  in  the  Bible,  Squire." 

"Oh,  blast  your "  began  the  Squire,  and 

then  replaced  the  more  apt  and  alliterative  word 
"Bible"  by  the  general  word  "superstition." 
He  was  himself  a  robust  rationalist,  but  he  went 
to  church  to  set  his  tenants  an  example.  Of 
what,  it  would  have  puzzled  him  to  say. 

A  little  way  along  the  lower  path  by  the  trees 
he  encountered  a  woodcutter,  one  Martin,  who 
was  more  explicit,  having  more  of  a  grievance. 
His  daughter  was  at  that  time  seriously  ill  with 
a  fever  recently  common  on  that  coast,  and  the 
Squire,  who  was  a  kind-hearted  gentleman, 
would  normally  have  made  allowances  for  low 
spirits  and  loss  of  temper.  But  he  came  near  to 
losing  his  own  again  when  the  peasant  persisted 
in  connecting  his  tragedy  with  the  traditional 
monomania  about  the  foreign  trees. 

"If  she  were  well  enough  I'd  move  her,"  said 
the  woodcutter,  "as  we  can't  move  them,  I  sup- 
pose. I'd  just  like  to  get  my  chopper  into  them 
and  feel  'em  come  crashing  down." 

"One  would  think  they  were  dragons,"  said 
Vane. 

264 


The  Tale  of  the  Peacock  Trees 

"And  that's  about  what  they  look  like,"  re- 
plied Martin.     "Look  at  'em!" 

The  woodman  was  naturally  a  rougher  and 
even  wilder  figure  than  the  gardener.  His  face 
also  was  brown,  and  looked  like  an  antique 
parchment,  and  it  was  framed  in  an  outlandish 
arrangement  of  raven  beard  and  whiskers,  which 
was  really  a  fashion  fifty  years  ago,  but  might 
have  been  five  thousand  years  old  or  older. 
Phoenicians,  one  felt,  trading  on  those  strange 
shores  in  the  morning  of  the  world,  might  have 
combed  or  curled  or  braided  their  blue-black  hair 
into  some  such  quaint  patterns.  For  this  patch 
of  population  was  as  much  a  corner  of  Cornwall 
as  Cornwall  is  a  corner  of  England;  a  tragic 
and  unique  race,  small  and  interrelated  like  a 
Celtic  clan.  The  clan  was  older  than  the  Vane 
family,  though  that  was  old  as  county  families 
go.  For  in  many  such  parts  of  England  it  is  the 
aristocrats  who  are  the  latest  arrivals.  It  was 
the  sort  of  racial  type  that  is  supposed  to  be 
passing,  and  perhaps  has  already  passed. 

The  obnoxious  objects  stood  some  hundred 
yards  away  from  the  speaker,  who  waved  toward 
them  with  his  ax;  and  there  was  something  sug- 
gestive in  the  comparison.  That  coast,  to  begin 
with,  stretching  toward  the  sunset,  was  itself 
almost  as  fantastic  as  a  sunset  cloud.  It  was  cut 
out  against  the  emerald  or  indigo  of  the  sea  in 
graven  horns  and  crescents  that  might  be  the  cast 
265 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

or  mold  of  some  such  crested  serpents ;  and,  be- 
neath, was  pierced  and  fretted  by  caves  and 
crevices,  as  if  by  the  boring  of  some  such  titanic 
worms.  Over  and  above  this  draconian  architec- 
ture of  the  earth  a  veil  of  gray  woods  hung 
thinner  like  a  vapor;  woods  which  the  witch- 
craft of  the  sea  had,  as  usual,  both  blighted  and 
blown  out  of  shape.  To  the  right  the  trees  trailed 
along  the  sea  front  in  a  single  line,  each  drawn 
out  in  thin  wild  lines  like  a  caricature.  At  the 
other  end  of  their  extent  they  multiplied  into  a 
huddle  of  hunchbacked  trees,  a  wood  spreading 
toward  a  projecting  part  of  the  high  coast.  It 
was  here  that  the  sight  appeared  to  which  so 
many  eyes  and  minds  seemed  to  be  almost  auto- 
matically turning. 

Out  of  the  middle  of  this  low,  and  more  or  less 
level  wood,  rose  three  separate  stems  that  shot 
up  and  soared  into  the  sky  like  a  lighthouse  out 
of  the  waves  or  a  church  spire  out  of  the  village 
roofs.  They  formed  a  clump  of  three  columns 
close  together,  which  might  well  be  the  mere 
bifurcation,  or  rather  trifurcation,  of  one  tree, 
the  lower  part  being  lost  or  sunken  in  the  thick 
wood  around.  Everything  about  them  suggested 
something  stranger  and  more  southern  than  any- 
thing even  in  that  last  peninsula  of  Britain  which 
pushes  out  farthest  toward  Spain  and  Africa  and 
the  southern  stars.  Their  leathery  leafage  had 
sprouted  in  advance  of  the  faint  mist  of  yellow- 
266 


The  Tale  of  the  Peacock  Trees 

green  around  them,  and  it  was  of  another  and 
less  natural  green,  tinged  with  blue,  like  the 
colors  of  a  kingfisher.  But  one  might  fancy  it 
the  scales  of  some  three-headed  dragon  towering 
over  a  herd  of  huddled  and  fleeing  cattle. 

"I  am  exceedingly  sorry  your  girl  is  so  unwell," 

said  Vane  shortly.     "But  really "  and  he 

strode  down  the  steep  road  with  plunging  strides. 

The  boat  was  already  secured  to  the  little  stone 
jetty,  and  the  boatman,  a  younger  shadow  of 
the  woodcutter — and,  indeed,  a  nephew  of  that 
useful  malcontent — saluted  his  territorial  lord 
with  the  sullen  formality  of  the  family.  The 
Squire  acknowledged  it  casually  and  had  soon 
forgotten  all  such  things  in  shaking  hands  with 
the  visitor  who  had  just  come  ashore.  The  visitor 
was  a  long,  loose  man,  very  lean  to  be  so  young, 
whose  long,  fine  features  seemed  wholly  fitted 
together  of  bone  and  nerve,  and  seemed  some- 
how to  contrast  with  his  hair,  that  showed  in 
vivid  yellow  patches  upon  his  hollow  temples 
under  the  brim  of  his  white  holiday  hat.  He  was 
carefully  dressed  in  exquisite  taste,  though  he  had 
come  straight  from  a  considerable  sea  voyage; 
and  he  carried  something  in  his  hand  which  in 
his  long  European  travels,  and  even  longer  Euro- 
pean visits,  he  had  almost  forgotten  to  call  a 
gripsack. 

Mr.  Cyprian  Paynter  was  an  American  who 
lived  in  Italy.  There  was  a  good  deal  more 
267 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

to  be  said  about  him,  for  he  was  a  very  acute  and 
cultivated  gentleman;  but  those  two  facts  would, 
perhaps,  cover  most  of  the  others.  Storing  his 
mind  like  a  museum  with  the  wonder  of  the  Old 
World,  but  all  lit  up  as  by  a  window  with  the 
wonder  of  the  New,  he  had  fallen  heir  to  some- 
thing of  the  unique  critical  position  of  Ruskin  or 
Pater,  and  was  further  famous  as  a  discoverer  of 
minor  poets.  He  was  a  judicious  discoverer,  and 
he  did  not  turn  all  his  minor  poets  into  major 
prophets.  If  his  geese  were  swans,  they  were 
not  all  Swans  of  Avon.  He  had  even  incurred 
the  deadly  suspicion  of  classicism  by  differing 
from  his  young  friends,  the  Punctuist  Poets,  when 
they  produced  versification  consisting  exclusively 
of  commas  and  colons.  He  had  a  more  humane 
sympathy  with  the  modern  flame  kindled  from 
the  embers  of  Celtic  mythology,  and  it  was  in 
reality  the  recent  appearance  of  a  Cornish  poet, 
a  sort  of  parallel  to  the  new  Irish  poets,  which 
had  brought  him  on  this  occasion  to  Cornwall. 
He  was,  indeed,  far  too  well-mannered  to  allow 
a  host  to  guess  that  any  pleasure  was  being  sought 
outside  his  own  hospitality.  He  had  a  long- 
standing invitation  from  Vane,  whom  he  had  met 
in  Cyprus  in  the  latter's  days  of  undiplomatic 
diplomacy;  and  Vane  was  not  aware  that  rela- 
tions had  only  been  thus  renewed  after  the  critic 
had  read  Merlin  and  Other  Verses,  by  a  new 
writer  named  John  Treherne.  Nor  did  the 
268 


The  Tale  of  the  Peacock  Trees 

Squire  even  begin  to  realize  the  much  more  diplo- 
matic diplomacy  by  which  he  had  been  induced 
to  invite  the  local  bard  to  lunch  on  the  very  day 
of  the  American  critic's  arrival. 

Mr.  Paynter  was  still  standing  with  his  grip- 
sack, gazing  in  a  trance  of  true  admiration  at  the 
hollowed  crags,  topped  by  the  gray,  grotesque 
wood,  and  crested  finally  by  the  three  fantastic 
trees. 

"It  is  like  being  shipwrecked  on  the  coast  of 
fairyland,"  he  said. 

"I  hope  you  haven't  been  shipwrecked  much," 
replied  his  host,  smiling.  "I  fancy  Jake  here 
can  look  after  you  very  well." 

Mr.  Paynter  looked  across  at  the  boatman 
and  smiled  also.  "I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  uour 
friend  is  not  quite  so  enthusiastic  for  this  land- 
scape as  I  am." 

"Oh,  the  trees,  I  suppose!"  said  the  Squire 
wearily. 

The  boatman  was  by  normal  trade  a  fisher- 
man; but  as  his  house,  built  of  black  tarred  tim- 
ber, stood  right  on  the  foreshore  a  few  yards 
from  the  pier,  he  was  employed  in  such  cases  as 
a  sort  of  ferryman.  He  was  a  big,  black-browed 
youth,  generally  silent,  but  something  seemed 
now  to  sting  him  into  speech. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  said,   "everybody  knows  it's 
not  natural.     Everybody  knows  the  sea  blights 
trees    and    beats    them    under,    when    they're 
269 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

only  just  trees.  These  things  thrive  like 
some  unholy  great  seaweed  that  don't  belong 
to  the  land  at  all.  It's  like  the — the  blessed 
sea  serpent  got  on  shore,  Squire,  and  eating  every- 
thing up." 

"There  is  some  stupid  legend,"  said  Squire 
Vane  gruffly.  uBut  come  up  into  the  garden;  I 
want  to  introduce  you  to  my  daughter." 

When,  however,  they  reached  the  little  table 
under  the  tree,  the  apparently  immovable  young 
lady  had  moved  away  after  all,  and  it  was  some 
time  before  they  came  upon  the  track  of  her. 
She  had  risen,  though  languidly,  and  wandered 
slowly  along  the  upper  path  of  the  terraced 
garden  looking  down  on  the  lower  path  where  it 
ran  closer  to  the  main  bulk  of  the  little  wood  by 
the  sea. 

Her  languor  was  not  a  feebleness  but  rather 
a  fullness  of  life,  like  that  of  a  child  half  awake ; 
she  seemed  to  stretch  herself  and  enjoy  every- 
thing without  noticing  anything.  She  passed  the 
wood,  into  the  gray  huddle  of  which  a  single 
white  path  vanished  through  a  black  hole.  Along 
this  part  of  the  terrace  ran  something  like  a  low 
rampart  or  balustrade,  embowered  with  flowers 
at  intervals ;  and  she  leaned  over  it,  looking  down 
at  another  glimpse  of  the  glowing  sea  behind  the 
clump  of  trees,  and  on  another  irregular  path 
tumbling  down  to  the  pier  and  the  boatman's 
cottage  on  the  beach. 

270 


The  Tale  of  the  Peacock  Trees 

As  she  gazed,  sleepily  enough,  she  saw  that  a 
strange  figure  was  very  actively  climbing  the  path, 
apparently  coming  from  the  fisherman's  cottage; 
so  actively  that  a  moment  afterwards  it  came  out 
between  the  trees  and  stood  upon  the  path  just 
below  her.  It  was  not  only  a  figure  strange  to 
her,  but  one  somewhat  strange  in  itself.  It  was 
that  of  a  man  still  young,  and  seeming  somehow 
younger  than  his  own  clothes,  which  were  not 
only  shabby  but  antiquated;  clothes  common 
enough  in  texture,  yet  carried  in  an  uncommon 
fashion.  He  wore  what  was  presumably  a  light 
waterproof,  perhaps  through  having  come  off 
the  sea;  but  it  was  held  at  the  throat  by  one 
button,  and  hung,  sleeves  and  all,  more  like  a 
cloak  than  a  coat.  He  rested  one  bony  hand  on 
a  black  stick;  under  the  shadow  of  his  broad  hat 
his  black  hair  hung  down  in  a  tuft  or  two.  His 
face,  which  was  swarthy,  but  rather  handsome  in 
itself,  wore  something  that  may  have  been  a 
slightly  embarrassed  smile,  but  had  too  much 
the  appearance  of  a  sneer. 

Whether  this  apparition  was  a  tramp  or  a 
trespasser,  or  a  friend  of  some  of  the  fishers  or 
woodcutters,  Barbara  Vane  was  quite  unable  to 
guess.  He  removed  his  hat,  still  with  his  un- 
altered and  rather  sinister  smile,  and  said  civilly : 
"Excuse  me.  The  Squire  asked  me  to  call." 
Here  he  caught  sight  of  Martin,  the  woodman, 
who  was  shifting  along  the  path,  thinning  the 
271 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

thin  trees;   and  the  stranger  made   a   familiar 
salute  with  one  linger. 

The  girl  did  not  know  what  to  say.  "Have 
you — have  you  come  about  cutting  the  wood?" 
she  asked  at  last. 

"I  would  I  were  so  honest  a  man,1'  replied  the 
stranger.  "Martin  is,  I  fancy,  a  distant  cousin 
of  mine;  we  Cornish  folk  just  round  here  are 
nearly  all  related,  you  know;  but  I  do  not  cut 
wood.  I  do  not  cut  anything,  except,  perhaps, 
capers.    I  am,  so  to  speak,  a  jongleur" 

"A  what?"  asked  Barbara. 

"A  minstrel,  shall  we  say?"  answered  the  new- 
comer, and  looked  up  at  her  more  steadily.  Dur- 
ing a  rather  odd  silence  their  eyes  rested  on  each 
other.  What  she  saw  has  been  already  noted, 
though  by  her,  at  any  rate,  not  in  the  least  under- 
stood. What  he  saw  was  a  decidedly  beautiful 
woman  with  a  statuesque  face  and  hair  that  shone 
in  the  sun  like  a  helmet  of  copper. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  went  on,  "that  in  this  old 
place,  hundreds  of  years  ago,  a  jongleur  may 
really  have  stood  where  I  stand,  and  a  lady  may 
really  have  looked  over  that  wall  and  thrown 
him  money?" 

"Do  y©u  want  money?"  she  asked,  all  at  sea. 

"Well,"  drawled  the  stranger,  "in  the  sense 
of  lacking  it,  perhaps,  but  I  fear  there  is  no  place 
now  for  a  minstrel,  except  nigger  minstrel.     I 
must  apologize  for  not  blacking  my  face." 
272 


The  Tale  of  the  Peacock  Trees 

She  laughed  a  little"  in  her  bewilderment,  and 
said:    "Well,  I  hardly  think  you  need  do  that." 

"You  think  the  natives  here  are  dark  enough 
already,  perhaps,"  he  observed  calmly.  "After 
all,  we  are  aborigines,  and  are  treated  as  such." 

She  threw  out  some  desperate  remark  about 
the  weather  or  the  scenery,  and  wondered  what 
would  happen  next. 

"The  prospect  is  certainly  beautiful,"  he  as- 
sented, in  the  same  enigmatic  manner.  "There 
is  only  one  thing  in  it  I  am  doubtful  about." 

While  she  stood  in  silence  he  slowly  lifted  his 
black  stick  like  a  long  black  finger  and  pointed  it 
at  the  peacock  trees  above  the  wood.  And  a  queer 
feeling  of  disquiet  fell  on  the  girl,  as  if  he  were, 
by  that  mere  gesture,  doing  a  destructive  act  and 
could  send  a  blight  upon  the  garden. 

The  strained  and  almost  painful  silence  was 
broken  by  the  voice  of  Squire  Vane,  loud  even 
while  it  was  still  distant. 

"We  couldn't  make  out  where  you'd  got  to, 
Barbara,"  he  said.  "This  is  my  friend,  Mr. 
Cyprian  Paynter."  The  next  moment  he  saw 
the  stranger  and  stopped,  a  little  puzzled. 

It  was  only  Mr.  Cyprian  Paynter  himself  who 
was  equal  to  the  situation.  He  had  seen  months 
ago  a  portrait  of  the  new  Cornish  poet  in  some 
American  literary  magazine,  and  he  found  him- 
self, to  his  surprise,  the  introducer  instead  of 
the  introduced. 

273 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"Why,  Squire,"  he  said  in  considerable  aston- 
ishment, "don't  you  know  Mr.  Treherne?  I 
supposed,  of  course,  he  was  a  neighbor." 

"Delighted  to  see  you,  Mr.  Treherne,"  said 
the  Squire,  recovering  his  manners  with  a  certain 
genial  confusion.  "So  pleased  you  were  able  to 
come.  This7  is  Mr.  Paynter — my  daughter," 
and,  turning  with  a  certain  boisterous  embarrass- 
ment, he  led  the  way  to  the  table  under  the  tree. 

Cyprian  Paynter  followed,  inwardly  revolving 
a  puzzle  which  had  taken  even  his  experience  by 
surprise.  The  American,  if  intellectually  an  aris- 
tocrat, was  still  socially  and  subconsciously  a 
democrat.  It  had  never  crossed  his  mind  that  the 
poet  should  be  counted  lucky  to  know  the  squire 
and  not  the  squire  to  know  the  poet.  The  honest 
patronage  in  Vane's  hospitality  was  something 
which  made  Paynter  feel  he  was,  after  all,  an 
exile  in  England. 

The  Squire,  anticipating  the  trial  of  luncheon 
with  a  strange  literary  man,  had  dealt  with  the 
case  tactfully  from  his  own  standpoint.  County 
society  might  have  made  the  guest  feel  like  a 
fish  out  of  water;  and,  except  for  the  American 
critic  and  the  local  lawyer  and  doctor,  worthy 
middle-class  people  who  fitted  into  the  picture,  he 
had  kept  it  as  a  family  party.  He  was  a  widower, 
and  when  the  meal  had  been  laid  out  on  the 
garden  table,  it  was  Barbara  who  presided  as 
hostess.  She  had  the  new  poet  on  her  right  hand 
274 


The  Tale  of  the  Peacock  Trees 

and  it  made  her  very  uncomfortable.  She  had 
practically  offered  that  fallacious  jongleur  money, 
and  it  did  not  make  it  easier  to  offer  him  lunch. 

"The  whole  countryside's  gone  mad,"  an- 
nounced the  Squire,  by  way  of  the  latest  local 
news.     "It's  about  this  infernal,  legend  of  ours." 

"I  collect  legends,"  said  Paynter,  smiling. 
"You  must  remember  I  haven't  yet  had  a  chance 
to  collect  yours.  And  this,"  he  added,  looking 
round  at  the  romantic  coast,  "is  a  fine  theater  for 
anything  dramatic." 

"Oh,  it's  dramatic  in  its  way,"  admitted  Vane, 
not  without  a  faint  satisfaction.  "It's  all  about 
those  things  over  there  we  call  the  peacock  trees 
— I  suppose,  because  of  the  queer  color  of  the 
leaf,  you  know,  though  I  have  heard  they  make 
a  shrill  noise  in  a  high  wind  that's  supposed  to 
be  like  the  shriek  of  a  peacock;  something  like 
a  bamboo  in  the  botanical  structure,  perhaps. 
Well,  those  trees  are  supposed  to  have  been 
brought  over  from  Barbary  by  my  ancestor  Sir 
Walter  Vane,  one  of  the  Elizabethan  patriots  or 
pirates,  or  whatever  you  call  them.  They  say 
that  at  the  end  of  his  last  voyage  the  villagers 
gathered  on  the  beach  down  there  and  saw  the 
boat  standing  in  from  the  sea,  and  the  new  trees 
stood  up  in  the  boat  like  a  mast,  all  gay  with 
leaves  out  of  season,  like  green  bunting.  And 
as  they  watched  they  thought  at  first  that  the 
boat  was  steering  oddly,  and  then  that  it  wasn't 
275 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

steering  at  all ;  and  when  it  drifted  to  the  shore 
at  last  every  man  in  that  boat  was  dead,  and  Sir 
Walter  Vane,  with  his  sword  drawn,  was  leaning 
up  against  the  tree  trunk,  as  stiff  as  the  tree." 

"Now  this  is  rather  curious,"  remarked 
Paynter  thoughtfully.  "I  told  you  I  collected 
legends,  and  I  fancy  I  can  tell  you  the  beginning 
of  the  story  of  which  that  is  the  end,  though  it 
comes  hundreds  of  miles  across  the  sea." 

He  tapped  meditatively  on  the  table  with  his 
thin,  taper  fingers,  like  a  man  trying  to  recall  a 
tune.  He  had,  indeed,  made  a  hobby  of  such 
fables,  and  he  was  not  without  vanity  about  his 
artistic  touch  in  telling  them. 

"Oh,  do  tell  us  your  part  of  it !"  cried  Barbara 
Vane,  whose  air  of  sunny  sleepiness  seemed  in 
some  vague  degree  to  have  fallen  from  her. 

The  American  bowed  across  the  table  with 
a  serious  politeness,  and  then  began  playing 
idly  with  a  quaint  ring  on  his  long  finger  as  he 
talked. 

"If  you  go  down  to  the  Barbary  Coast,  where 
the  last  wedge  of  the  forest  narrows  down  be- 
tween the  desert  and  the  great  tideless  sea,  you 
will  find  the  natives  still  telling  a  strange  story 
about  a  saint  of  the  Dark  Ages.  There,  on  the 
twilight  border  of  the  Dark  Continent,  you  feel 
the  Dark  Ages.  I  have  only  visited  the  place 
once,  though  it  lies,  so  to  speak,  opposite  to  the 
Italian  city  where  I  lived  for  years,  and  yet  you 
276 


The  Tale  of  the  Peacock  Trees 

would  hardly  believe  how  the  topsy-turvydom 
and  transmigration  of  this  myth  somehow  seemed 
less  mad  than  they  really  are,  with  the  wood  loud 
with  lions  at  night  and  that  dark  red  solitude 
beyond.  They  say  that  the  hermit  St.  Securis, 
living  there  among  trees,  grew  to  love  them  like 
companions ;  since,  though  great  giants  with  many 
arms  like  Briareus,  they  were  the  mildest  and 
most  blameless  of  the  creatures;  they  did  not  de- 
vour like  the  lions,  but  rather  opened  their  arms 
to  all  the  little  birds.  And  he  prayed  that  they 
might  be  loosened  from  time  to  time  to  walk  like 
other  things.  And  the  trees  were  moved  upon 
the  prayers  of  Securis,  as  they  were  at  the  songs 
of  Orpheus.  The  men  of  the  desert  were  stricken 
from  afar  with  fear,  seeing  the  saint  walking 
with  a  walking  grove,  like  a  schoolmaster  with 
his  boys.  For  the  trees  were  thus  freed  under 
strict  conditions  of  discipline.  They  were  to 
return  at  the  sound  of  the  hermit's  bell,  and, 
above  all,  to  copy  the  wild  beasts  in  walking  only 
— to  destroy  and  devour  nothing.  Well,  it  is  said 
that  one  of  the  trees  heard  a  voice  that  was  not 
the  saint's;  that  in  the  warm  green  twilight  of 
one  summer  evening  it  became  conscious  of  some- 
thing sitting  and  speaking  in  its  branches  in  the 
guise  of  a  great  bird,  and  it  was  that  which  once 
spoke  from  a  tree  in  the  guise  of  a  great  serpent. 
As  the  voice  grew  louder  among  its  murmuring 
leaves  the  tree  was  torn  with  a  great  desire  to 
277 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

stretch  out  and  snatch  at  the  birds  that  flew 
harmlessly  about  their  nests,  and  pluck  them  to 
pieces.  Finally,  the  tempter  filled  the  tree-top 
with  his  own  birds  of  pride,  the  starry  pageant 
of  the  peacocks.  And  the  spirit  of  the  brute 
overcame  the  spirit  of  the  tree,  and  it  rent  and 
consumed  the  blue-green  birds  till  not  a  plume 
was  left,  and  returned  to  the  quiet  tribe  of  trees. 
But  they  say  that  when  spring  came  all  the  other 
trees  put  forth  leaves,  but  this  put  forth  feathers 
of  a  strange  hue  and  pattern.  And  by  that  mon- 
strous assimilation  the  saint  knew  of  the  sin,  and 
he  rooted  that  one  tree  to  the  earth  with  a  judg- 
ment, so  that  evil  should  fall  on  any  who  re- 
moved it  again.  That,  Squire,  is  the  beginning 
in  the  deserts  of  the  tale  that  ended  here,  almost 
in  this  garden." 

"And  the  end  is  about  as  reliable  as  the  begin- 
ning, I  should  say,"  said  Vane.  "Yours  is  a  nice 
plain  tale  for  a  small  tea-party;  a  quiet  little  bit 
of  still-life,  that  is." 

"What  a  queer,  horrible  story,"  exclaimed 
Barbara.    "It  makes  one  feel  like  a  cannibal." 

"Ex  Africa,"  said  the  lawyer,  smiling.  "It 
comes  from  a  cannibal  country.  I  think  it's  the 
touch  of  the  tar-brush,  that  nightmare  feeling 
that  you  don't  know  whether  the  hero  is  a  plant 
or  a  man  or  a  devil.  Don't  you  feel  it  sometimes 
in 'Uncle  Remus'?" 

"True,"  said  Paynter.  "Perfectly  true."  And 
278 


The  Tale  of  the  Peacock  Trees 

he  looked  at  the  lawyer  with  a  new  interest.  The 
lawyer,  who  had  been  introduced  as  Mr.  Ashe, 
was  one  of  those  people  who  are  more  worth 
looking  at  than  most  people  realize  when  they 
look.  If  Napoleon  had  been  red-haired,  and  had 
bent  all  his  powers  with  a  curious  contentment 
upon  the  petty  lawsuits  of  a  province,  he  might 
have  looked  much  the  same;  the  head  with  the 
red  hair  was  heavy  and  powerful ;  the  figure  in  its 
dark,  quiet  clothes  was  comparatively  insignifi- 
cant, as  was  Napoleon's.  He  seemed  more  at 
ease  in  the  Squire's  society  than  the  doctor,  who, 
though  a  gentleman,  was  a  shy  one,  and  a  mere 
shadow  of  his  professional  brother. 

"As  you  truly  say,"  remarked  Paynter,  "the 
story  seems  touched  with  quite  barbarous  ele- 
ments, probably  Negro.  Originally,  though,  I 
think  there  was  really  a  hagiological  story  about 
some  hermit,  though  some  of  the  higher  critics 
say  St.  Securis  never  existed,  but  was  only  an 
allegory  of  arboriculture,  since  his  name  is  the 
Latin  for  an  ax." 

"Oh,  if  you  come  to  that,"  remarked  the  poet 
Treherne,  "you  might  as  well  say  Squire  Vane 
doesn't  exist,  and  that  he's  only  an  allegory  for 
a  weathercock."  Something  a  shade  too  cool 
about  this  sally  drew  the  lawyer's  red  brows  to- 
gether. He  looked  across  the  table  and  met  the 
poet's  somewhat  equivocal  smile. 

"Do  I  understand,  Mr.  Treherne,"  asked 
19  279 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

Ashe,  "that  you  support  the  miraculous  claims  of 
St.  Securis  in  this  case.  Do  you,  by  any  chance, 
believe  in  the  walking  trees?" 

"I  see  men  as  trees  walking,"  answered  the 
poet,  "like  the  man  cured  of  blindness  in  the 
Gospel.  By  the  way,  do  I  understand  that  you 
support  the  miraculous  claims  of  that — thau- 
maturgist?" 

Paynter  intervened  swiftly  and  suavely.  "Now 
that  sounds  a  fascinating  piece  of  psychology. 
You  see  men  as  trees?" 

"As  I  can't  imagine  why  men  should  walk,  I 
can't  imagine  why  trees  shouldn't,"  answered 
Treherne. 

"Obviously,  it  is  the  nature  of  the  organism," 
interposed  the  medical  guest,  Dr.  Burton  Brown ; 
"it  is  necessary  in  the  very  type  of  vegetable 
structure." 

"In  other  words,  a  tree  sticks  in  the  mud  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end,"  answered  Treherne. 
"So  do  you  stop  in  your  consulting  room  from 
ten  to  eleven  every  day.  And  don't  you  fancy  a 
fairy,  looking  in  at  your  window  for  a  flash  after 
having  just  jumped  over  the  moon  and  played 
mulberry  bush  with  the  Pleiades,  would  think  you 
were  a  vegetable  structure,  and  that  sitting  still 
was  the  nature  of  the  organism?" 

"I  don't  happen  to  believe  in  fairies,"  said  the 
doctor  rather  stiffly,  for  the  argumentum  ad 
hominem  was  becoming  too  common.  A  sulphur- 
280 


The  Tale  of  the  Peacock  Trees 

ous  subconscious  anger  seemed  to  radiate  from 
the  dark  poet. 

"Well,  I  should  hope  not,  Doctor,"  began  the 
Squire,  in  his  loud  and  friendly  style,  and  then 
stopped,  seeing  the  other's  attention  arrested. 
The  silent  butler  waiting  on  the  guests  had  ap- 
peared behind  the  doctor's  chair,  and  was  saying 
something  in  the  low,  level  tones  of  the  well- 
trained  servant.  He  was  so  smooth  a  specimen 
of  the  type  that  others  never  noticed,  at  first, 
that  he  also  repeated  the  dark  portrait,  however 
varnished,  so  common  in  this  particular  family 
of  Cornish  Celts.  His  face  was  sallow  and  even 
yellow,  and  his  hair  indigo  black.  He  went  by 
the  name  of  Miles.  Some  felt  oppressed  by  the 
tribal  type  in  this  tiny  corner  of  England.  They 
felt  somehow  as  if  all  these  dark  faces  were  the 
masks  of  a  secret  society. 

The  doctor  rose  with  a  half  apology.  "I  must 
ask  pardon  for  disturbing  this  pleasant  party;  I 
am  called  away  on  duty.  Please  don't  let  any- 
body move.  We  have  to  be  ready  for  these 
things,  you  know.  Perhaps  Mr.  Treherne  will 
admit  that  my  habits  are  not  so  very  vegetable, 
after  all."  With  this  Parthian  shaft,  at  which 
there  was  some  laughter,  he  strode  away  very 
rapidly  across  the  sunny  lawn  to  where  the  road 
dipped  down  toward  the  village. 

uHe  is  very  good  among  the  poor,"  said  the 
girl  with  an  honorable  seriousness. 
281 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"A  capital  fellow,"  agreed  the  Squire.  "Where 
is  Miles  ?  You  will  have  a  cigar,  Mr.  Treherne  ?" 
And  he  got  up  from  the  table ;  the  rest  followed, 
and  the  group  broke  up  on  the  lawn. 

"Remarkable  man,  Treherne,"  said  the  Ameri- 
can to  the  lawyer  conversationally. 

"Remarkable  is  the  word,"  assented  Ashe 
rather  grimly.  "But  I  don't  think  I'll  make  any 
remark  about  him." 

The  Squire,  too  impatient  to  wait  for  the  yel- 
low-faced Miles,  had  betaken  himself  indoors 
for  the  cigars,  and  Barbara  found  herself  once 
more  paired  off  with  the  poet,  as  she  floated 
along  the  terrace  garden;  but  this  time,  sym- 
bolically enough,  upon  the  same  level  of  lawn. 
Mr.  Treherne  looked  less  eccentric  after  having 
shed  his  curious  cloak,  and  seemed  a  quieter  and 
more  casual  figure. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude  to  you  just  now," 
she  said  abruptly. 

"And  that's  the  worst  of  it,"  replied  the  man 
of  letters,  "for  I'm  horribly  afraid  I  did  mean 
to  be  rude  to  you.  When  I  looked  up  and  saw 
you  up  there  something  surged  up  in  me  that  was 
in  all  the  revolutions  of  history.  Oh,  there  was 
admiration  in  it  too !  Perhaps  there  was  idolatry 
in  all  the  iconoclasts." 

He  seemed  to  have  a  power  of  reaching  rather 
intimate  conversation  in  one  silent  and  cat-like 
bound,  as  he  had  scaled  the  steep  road,  and  it 
282 


The  Tale  of  the  Peacock  Trees 

made  her  feel  him  to  be  dangerous,  and  perhaps 
unscrupulous.  She  changed  the  subject  sharply, 
not  without  a  movement  toward  gratifying  her 
own  curiosity. 

"What  did  you  mean  by  all  that  about  walking 
trees  ?"  she  asked.  "Don't  tell  me  you  really 
believe  in  a  magic  tree  that  eats  birds  I"  fl 

"I  should  probably  surprise  you,"  said  Tre- 
herne  gravely,  "more  by  what  I  don't  believe 
than  by  what  I  do." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  he  made  a  general  ges- 
ture toward  the  house  and  garden.  "I'm  afraid 
I  don't  believe  in  all  this;  for  instance,  in  Eliza- 
bethan houses  and  Elizabethan  families  and  the 
way  estates  have  been  improved,  and  the  rest  of 
it.  Look  at  our  friend  the  woodcutter  .now." 
And  he  pointed  to  the  man  with  the  quaint  black 
beard,  who  was  still  plying  his  ax  upon  the  tim- 
ber below. 

"That  man's  family  goes  back  for  ages,  and 
it  was  far  richer  and  freer  in  what  you  call  the 
Dark  Ages  than  it  is  now.  Wait  till  the  Cornish 
peasant  writes  a  history  of  Cornwall." 

"But  what  in  the  world,"  she  demanded,  "has 
this  to  do  with  whether  you  believe  in  a  tree 
eating  birds?" 

"Why  should  I  confess  what  I  believe  in?"  he 

said,  a  muffled  drum  of  mutiny  in  his  voice.    "The 

gentry  came  here  and  took  our  land  and  took 

our  labor  and  took  our  customs.    And  now,  after 

283 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

exploitation,  a  viler  thing,  education  1  They 
must  take  our  dreams  1" 

"Well,  this  dream  was  rather  a  nightmare, 
wasn't  it?"  asked  Barbara,  smiling;  and  the  next 
moment  grew  quite  grave,  saying  almost  anx- 
iously: "But  here's  Doctor  Brown  back  again. 
Why,  he  looks  quite  upset." 

The  doctor,  a  black  figure  on  the  green  lawn, 
was,  indeed,  coming  toward  them  at  a  very  vigor- 
ous walk.  His  body  and  gait  very  much  younger 
than  his  face,  which  seemed  prematurely  lined 
as  with  worry;  his  brow  was  bald,  and  projected 
from  the  straight,  dark  hair  behind  it.  He  was 
visibly  paler  than  when  he  left  the  lunch  table. 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,  Miss  Vane,"  he  said,  "that 
I  am  the  bearer  of  bad  news  to  poor  Martin,  the 
woodman  here.  His  daughter  died  half  an  hour 
ago." 

"Oh,"  cried  Barbara  warmly,  "I  am  so  sorry  1" 

"So  am  I,"  said  the  doctor,  and  passed  on 
rather  abruptly;  he  ran  down  the  stone  steps 
between  the  stone  urns ;  and  they  saw  him  in  talk 
with  the  woodcutter.  They  could  not  see  the 
woodcutter's  face.  He  stood  with  his  back  to 
them,  but  they  saw  something  that  seemed  more 
moving  than  any  change  of  countenance.  The 
man's  hand  holding  the  ax  rose  high  above  his 
head,  and  for  a  flash  it  seemed  as  if  he  would 
have  cut  down  the  doctor.  But  in  fact  he  was 
not  looking  at  the  doctor.  His  face  was  set 
284 


The  Tale  of  the  Peacock  Trees 

toward  the  cliff,  where,  sheer  out  of  the  dwarf 
forest,  rose,  gigantic  and  gilded  by  the  sun,  the 
trees  of  pride. 

The  strong  brown  hand  made  a  movement  and 
was  empty.  The  ax  went  circling  swiftly  through 
the  air,  its  head  showing  like  a  silver  crescent 
against  the  gray  twilight  of  the  trees.  It  did  not 
reach  its  tall  objective,  but  fell  among  the  under- 
growth, shaking  up  a  flying  litter  of  birds.  But 
in  the  poet's  memory,  full  of  primal  things,  some- 
thing seemed  to  say  that  he  had  seen  the  birds 
of  some  pagan  augury,  the  ax  of  some  pagan 
sacrifice. 

A  moment  after  the  man  made  a  heavy  move- 
ment forward,  as  if  to  recover  his  tool;  but  the 
doctor  put  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Never  mind  that  now,"  they  heard  him  say 
sadly  and  kindly.  "The  Squire  will  excuse  you 
any  more  work,  I  know." 

Something  made  the  girl  look  at  Treherne. 
He  stood  gazing,  his  head  a  little  bent,  and  one 
of  his  black  elf-locks  had  fallen  forward  over 
his  forehead.  And  again  she  had  the  sense  of 
a  shadow  over  the  grass;  she  almost  felt  as  if 
the  grass  were  a  host  of  fairies,  and  that  the 
fairies  were  not  her  friends. 


II 

THE  WAGER  OF  SQUIRE  FANE 

¥T  was  more  than  a  month  before  the  legend 
-■*  of  the  peacock  trees  was  again  discussed  in 
the  Squire's  circle.  It  fell  out  one  evening,  when 
his  eccentric  taste  for  meals  in  the  garden  that 
gathered  the  company  round  the  same  table,  now 
lit  with  a  lamp  and  laid  out  for  dinner  in  a  glow- 
ing spring  twilight.  It  was  even  the  same  com- 
pany, for  in  the  few  weeks  intervening  they  had 
insensibly  grown  more  and  more  into  each  other's 
lives,  forming  a  little  group  like  a  club.  The 
American  aesthete  was  of  course  the  most  active 
agent,  his  resolution  to  pluck  out  the  heart  of 
the  Cornish  poet's  mystery  leading  him  again 
and  again  to  influence  his  flighty  host  for  such 
reunions.  Even  Mr.  Ashe,  the  lawyer,  seemed 
to  have  swallowed  his  half-humorous  prejudices ; 
and  the  doctor,  though  a  rather  sad  and  silent, 
was  a  companionable  and  considerate  man. 
Paynter  had  even  read  Treherne's  poetry  aloud, 
and  he  read  admirably;  he  had  also  read  other 
things,  not  aloud,  grubbing  up  everything  in  the 
neighborhood,  from  guidebooks  to  epitaphs,  that 
could  throw  a  light  on  local  antiquities.  And  it 
286 


The  Wager  of  Squire  Vane 

was  that  evening  when  the  lamplight  and  the  last 
daylight  had  kindled  the  colors  of  the  wine  and 
silver  on  the  table  under  the  tree,  that  he  an- 
nounced a  new  discovery. 

"Say,  Squire,"  he  remarked,  with  one  of  his 
rare  Americanisms,  "about  those  bogey  trees  of 
yours;  I  don't  believe  you  know  half  the  tales 
told  round  here  about  them.  It  seems  they  have 
a  way  of  eating  things.  Not  that  I  have  any 
ethical  objection  to  eating  things,"  he  continued, 
helping  himself  elegantly  to  green  cheese.  uBut 
I  have  more  or  less,  broadly  speaking,  an  objec- 
tion to  eating  people." 

"Eating  people !"  repeated  Barbara  Vane. 

"I  know  a  globe-trotter  mustn't  be  fastidious," 
replied  Mr.  Paynter.  "But  I  repeat  firmly,  an 
objection  to  eating  people.  The  peacock  trees 
seem  to  have  progressed  since  the  happy  days  of 
innocence  when  they  only  ate  peacocks.  If  you 
ask  the  people  here — the  fisherman  who  lives  on 
that  beach,  or  the  man  that  mows  this  very  lawn 
in  front  of  us — they'll  tell  you  tales  taller  than 
any  tropical  one  I  brought  you  from  the  Barbary 
Coast.  If  you  ask  them  what  happened  to  the 
fisherman  Peters,  who  got  drunk  on  All  Hallows 
Eve,  they'll  tell  you  he  lost  his  way  in  that 
little  wood,  tumbled  down  asleep  under  the 
wicked  trees,  and  then — evaporated,  vanished, 
was  licked  up  like  dew  by  the  sun.  If  you  ask 
them  where  Harry  Hawke  is,  the  widow's  little 
287 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

son,  they'll  just  tell  you  he's  swallowed ;  that  he 
was  dared  to  climb  the  trees  and  sit  there  all 
night,  and  did  it.  What  the  trees  did  God  knows ; 
the  habits  of  a  vegetable  ogre  leave  one  a  little 
vague.  But  they  even  add  the  agreeable  detail 
that  a  new  branch  appears  on  the  tree  when  some- 
body has  petered  out  in  this  style." 

"What  new  nonsense  is  this  ?"  cried  Vane.  "I 
know  there's  some  crazy  yarn  about  the  trees 
spreading  fever,  though  every  educated  man 
knows  why  these  epidemics  return  occasionally. 
And  I  know  they  say  you  can  tell  the  noise  of 
them  among  other  trees  in  a  gale,  and  I  dare  say 
you  can.  But  even  Cornwall  isn't  a  lunatic 
asylum,  and  a  tree  that  dines  on  a  passing 
tourist " 

"Well,  the  two  tales  are  reconcilable  enough," 
put  in  the  poet  quietly.  "If  there  were  a  magic 
that  killed  men  when  they  came  close,  it's  likely 
to  strike  them  with  sickness  when  they  stand  far 
off.  In  the  old  romance  the  dragon,  that  devours 
people,  often  blasts  others  with  a  sort  of  poison- 
ous breath." 

Ashe  looked  across  at  the  speaker  steadily,  not 
to  say  stonily. 

"Do  I  understand,"  he  inquired,  "that  you 
swallow  the  swallowing  trees  too?" 

Treherne's  dark  smile  was  still  on  the  defen- 
sive ;  his  fencing  always  annoyed  the  other,  and 
he  seemed  not  without  malice  in  the  matter. 
288 


The  Wager  of  Squire  Vane 

"Swallowing  is  a  metaphor,"  he  said,  "about 
me,  if  not  about  the  trees.  And  metaphors  take 
us  at  once  into  dreamland — no  bad  place,  either. 
This  garden,  I  think,  gets  more  and  more  like  a 
dream  at  this  corner  of  the  day  and  night,  that 
might  lead  us  anywhere." 

The  yellow  horn  of  the  moon  had  appeared 
silently  and  as  if  suddenly  over  the  black  horns 
of  the  seaweed,  seeming  to  announce  as  night 
something  which  till  then  had  been  evening.  A 
night  breeze  came  in  between  the  trees  and  raced 
stealthily  across  the  turf,  and  as  they  ceased 
speaking  they  heard,  not  only  the  seething  grass, 
but  the  sea  itself  move  and  sound  in  all  the  cracks 
and  caves  round  them  and  below  them  and  on 
every  side.  They  all  felt  the  note  that  had  been 
struck — the  American  as  an  art  critic  and  the 
poet  as  a  poet;  and  the  Squire,  who  believed  him- 
self boiling  with  an  impatience  purely  rational, 
did  not  really  understand  his  own  impatience. 
In  him,  more  perhaps  than  the  others — more 
certainly  than  he  knew  himself — the  sea  wind 
went  to  the  head  like  wine. 

"Credulity  is  a  curious  thing,"  went  on  Tre- 
herne  in  a  low  voice.  "It  is  more  negative  than 
positive,  and  yet  it  is  infinite.  Hundreds  of  men 
will  avoid  walking  under  a  ladder;  they  don't 
know  where  the  door  of  the  ladder  wilt  lead. 
They  don't  really  think  God  would  throw  a 
thunderbolt  at  them  for  such  a  thing.  They  don't 
289 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

know  what  would  happen,  that  is  just  the  point; 
but  yet  they  step  aside  as  from  a  precipice.  So 
the  poor  people  here  may  or  may  not  believe 
anything;  they  don't  go  into  those  trees  at  night." 

"I  walk  under  a  ladder  whenever  I  can,"  cried 
Vane,  in  quite  unnecessary  excitement. 

"You  belong  to  a  Thirteen  Club,"  said  the 
poet.  "You  walk  under  a  ladder  on  Friday  to 
dine  thirteen  at  a  table,  everybody  spilling  the 
salt.  But  even  you  don't  go  into  those  trees 
at  night." 

Squire  Vane  stood  up,  his  silver  hair  flaming 
in  the  wind. 

"I'll  stop  all  night  in  your  tomfool  wood  and 
up  your  tomfool  trees,"  he  said.  "I'll  do  it  for 
twopence  or  two  thousand  pounds,  if  anyone  will 
take  the  bet." 

Without  waiting  for  reply,  he  snatched  up  his 
wide  white  hat  and  settled  it  on  with  a  fierce 
gesture,  and  had  gone  off  in  great  leonine  strides 
across  the  lawn  before  anyone  at  the  table  could 
move. 

The  stillness  was  broken  by  Miles,  the  butler, 
who  dropped  and  broke  one  of  the  plates  he 
carried.  He  stood  looking  after  his  master  with 
his  long,  angular  chin  thrust  out,  looking  yel- 
lower where  it  caught  the  yellow  light  of  the 
lamp  below.  His  face  was  thus  sharply  in 
shadow,  but  Paynter  fancied  for  a  moment  it 
was  convulsed  by  some  passion  passing  surprise. 
290 


The  Wager  of  Squire  Vane 

But  the  face  was  quite  as  usual  when  it  turned, 
and  Paynter  realized  that  a  night  of  fancies  had 
begun,  like  the  cross  purposes  of  the  "Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream." 

The  wood  of  the  strange  trees,  toward  which 
the  Squire  was  walking,  lay  so  far  forward  on 
the  headland,  which  ultimately  almost  overhung 
the  sea,  that  it  could  be  approached  by  only  one 
path,  which  shone  clearly  like  a  silver  ribbon 
in  the  twilight.  The  ribbon  ran  along  the  edge 
of  the  cliff,  where  the  single  row  of  deformed 
trees  ran  beside  it  all  the  way,  and  eventually 
plungied  into  the  closer  mass  of  trees  by  one 
natural  gateway,  a  mere  gap  in  the  wood,  look- 
ing dark,  like  a  lion's  mouth.  What  became  of 
the  path  inside  could  not  be  seen,  but  it  doubt- 
less led  round  the  hidden  roots  of  the  great 
central  trees.  The  Squire  was  already  within  a 
yard  or  two  of  this  dark  entry  when  his  daughter 
rose  from  the  table  and  took  a  step  or  two  after 
him  as  if  to  call  him  back. 

Treherne  had  also  risen,  and  stood  as  if  dazed 
at  the  effect  of  his  idle  defiance.  When  Barbara 
moved  he  seemed  to  recover  himself,  and  step- 
ping after  her,  said  something  which  Paynter 
did  not  hear.  He  said  it  casually  and  even  dis- 
tantly enough,  but  it  clearly  suggested  something 
to  her  mind;  for,  after  a  moment's  thought,  she 
nodded  and  walked  back,  not  toward  the  table, 
but  apparently  toward  the  house.  Paynter  looked 
291 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

after  her  with  a  momentary  curiosity,  and  when 
he  turned  again  the  Squire  had  vanished  into  the 
hole  in  the  wood. 

"He's  gone,"  said  Treherne,  with  a  clang  of 
finality  in  his  tones,  like  the  slamming  of  a  door. 

"Well,  suppose  he  has?"  cried  the  lawyer, 
roused  at  the  voice.  "The  Squire  can  go  into  his 
own  wood,  I  suppose !  What  the  devil's  all  the 
fuss  about,  Mr.  Paynter?  Don't  tell  me  you 
think  there's  any  harm  in  that  plantation  of 
sticks." 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Paynter,  throwing  one  leg 
over  another  and  lighting  a  cigar.  "But  I  shall 
stop  here  till  he  comes  out." 

"Very  well,"  said  Ashe  shortly,  "I'll  stop  with 
you,  if  only  to  see  the  end  of  this  farce." 

The  doctor  said  nothing,  but  he  also  kept  his 
seat  and  accepted  one  of  the  American's  cigars. 
If  Treherne  had  been  attending  to  the  matter 
he  might  have  noted,  with  his  sardonic  supersti- 
tion, a  curious  fact — that,  while  all  three  men 
were  tacitly  condemning  themselves  to  stay  out 
all  night  if  necessary,  all,  by  one  blank  omission 
or  oblivion,  assumed  that  it  was  impossible  to 
follow  their  host  into  the  wood  just  in  front  of 
them.  But  Treherne,  though  still  in  the  garden, 
had  wandered  away  from  the  garden  table,  and 
was  pacing  along  the  single  line  of  trees  against 
the  dark  sea.  They  had  in  their  regular  inter- 
stices, showing  the  sea  as  through  a  series  of 
292 


The  Wager  of  Squire  Vane 

windows,  something  of  the  look  of  the  ghost  or 
skeleton  of  a  cloister,  and  he,  having  thrown  his 
coat  once  more  over  his  neck,  like  a  cape,  passed 
to  and  fro  like  the  ghost  of  some  not  very  sane 
monk. 

All  these  men,  whether  skeptics  or  mystics, 
looked  back  for  the  rest  of  their  lives  on  that 
night  as  on  something  unnatural.  They  sat  still 
or  started  up  abruptly,  and  paced  the  great 
garden  in  long  detours,  so  that  it  seemed  that  no 
three  of  them  were  together  at  a  time,  and  none 
knew  who  would  be  his  companion;  yet  their 
rambling  remained  within  the  same  dim  and  mazy 
space.  They  fell  into  snatches  of  uneasy  slum- 
ber; these  were  very  brief,  and  yet  they  felt  as 
if  the  whole  sitting,  strolling,  or  occasional  speak- 
ing had  been  parts  of  a  single  dream. 

Paynter  woke  once,  and  found  Ashe  sitting 
opposite  him  at  a  table  otherwise  empty;  his  face 
dark  in  shadow  and  his  cigar-end  like  the  red  eye 
of  a  Cyclops.  Until  the  lawyer  spoke,  in  his 
steady  voice,  Paynter  was  positively  afraid  of 
him.  He  answered  at  random  and  nodded  again ; 
when  he  again  woke  the  lawyer  was  gone,  and 
what  was  opposite  him  was  the  bald,  pale  brow 
of  the  doctor;  there  seemed  suddenly  something 
ominous  in  the  familiar  fact  that  he  wore  spec- 
tacles. And  yet  the  vanishing  Ashe  had  only 
vanished  a  few  yards  away,  for  he  turned  at  that 
instant  and  strolled  back  to  the  table.  With  a 
293 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

jerk  Paynter  realized  that  his  nightmare  was  but 
a  trick  of  sleep  or  sleeplessness,  and  spoke  in  his 
natural  voice,  but  rather  loud. 

"So  you've  joined  us  again;  where's  Tre- 
herne?,, 

"Oh,  still  revolving,  I  suppose,  like  a  polar 
bear  under  those  trees  on  the  cliff,"  replied  Ashe, 
motioning  with  his  cigar,  "looking  at  what  an 
older  (and  you  will  forgive  me  for  thinking  a 
somewhat  better)  poet  called  the  wine-dark  sea. 
It  really  has  a  sort  of  purple  shade;  look  at  it." 

Paynter  looked;  he  saw  the  wine-dark  sea  and 
the  fantastic  trees  that  fringed  it,  but  he  did  not 
see  the  poet;  the  cloister  was  already  empty  of 
its  restless  monk. 

"Gone  somewhere  else,"  he  said,  with  futility 
far  from  characteristic.  "He'll  be  back  here 
presently.  This  is  an  interesting  vigil,  but  a  vigil 
loses  some  of  its  intensity  when  you  can't  keep 
awake.  Ah!  Here's  Treherne;  so  we're  all 
mustered,  as  the  politician  said  when  Mr.  Colman 
came  late  for  dinner.  No,  the  doctor's  off  again ; 
how  restless  we  all  are !"  The  poet  had  drawn 
near,  his  feet  were  falling  soft  on  the  grass,  and 
was  gazing  at  them  with  a  singular  attentiveness. 

"It  will  soon  be  over,"  he  said. 

"What?"  snapped  Ashe  very  abruptly. 

"The  night,  of  course,"  replied  Treherne  in  a 
motionless  manner.  "The. darkest  hour  has 
passed." 

294 


The  Wager  of  Squire  Vane 

"Didn't  some  other  minor  poet  remark,"  in- 
quired  Paynter  flippantly,  "that  the  darkest  hour 

before  the  dawn ?  My  God,  what  was  that  ? 

It  was  like  a  scream." 

"It  was  a  scream,"  replied  the  poet.  "The 
scream  of  a  peacock." 

Ashe  stood  up,  his  strong  pale  face  against 
his  red  hair,  and  said  furiously:  "What  the  devil 
do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  perfectly  natural  causes,  as  Dr.  Brown 
would  say/'  replied  Treherne.  "Didn't  the  Squire 
tell  us  the  trees  had  a  shrill  note  of  their  own 
when  the  wind  blew?  The  wind's  beating  up 
again  from  the  sea ;  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  there 
was  a  storm  before  dawn." 

Dawn  indeed  came  gradually  with  a  growing 
noise  of  wind,  and  the  purple  sea  began  to  boil 
about  the  dark  volcanic  cliffs.  The  first  change 
in  the  sky  showed  itself  only  in  Jthe  shapes  of  the 
wood  and  the  single  stems  growing  darker  but 
clearer;  and  above  the  gray  clump,  against  a 
glimpse  of  growing  light,  tRey  saw  aloft  the  evil 
trinity  of  the  trees.  In  their  long  lines  there 
seemed  to  Paynter  something  faintly  serpentine 
and  even  spiral.  He  cpuid  almost  fancy  he  saw 
them  slowly  revolving  a«  in  some  cyclic  dance,  but 
this,  again,  was  but  a  last  delusion  of  dreamland, 
for  a  few  seconds  later  he  was  again  asleep.  In 
dreams  he  toiled  through  a  tangle  of  inconclusive 
tales,  each  filled  with  the  same  stress  and  noise 
20  295 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

of  sea  and  sea  wind;  and  above  and  outside  all 
other  voices,  the  wailing  of  the  Trees  of  Pride. 

When  he  woke  it  was  broad  day,  and  a  bloom 
of  early  light  lay  on  wood  and  garden  and  on 
fields  and  farms  for  miles  away.  The  compara- 
tive common  sense  that  daylight  brings  even  to 
the  sleepless  drew  him  alertly  to  his  feet,  and 
showed  him  all  his  companions  standing  about 
the  lawn  in  similar  attitudes  of  expectancy.  There 
was  no  need  to  ask  what  they  were  expecting. 
They  were  waiting  to  hear  the  nocturnal  experi- 
ences, comic  or  commonplace  or  whatever  they 
might  prove  to  be,  of  that  eccentric  friend,  whose 
experiment  (whether  from  some  subconscious 
fear  or  some  fancy  of  honor)  they  had  not  ven- 
tured to  interrupt.  Hour  followed  hour,  and 
still  nothing  stirred  in  the  wood  save  an  occa- 
sional bird.  The  Squire,  like  most  men  of  his 
type,  was  an  early  riser,  and  it  was  not  likely  that 
he  would  in  this  case  sleep  late;  it  was  much 
more  likely,  in  the  excitement  in  which  he  had 
left  them,  that  he  would  not  sleep  at  all.  Yet 
it  was  clear  that  he  must  be  sleeping,  perhaps 
by  some  reaction  from  a  strain.  By  the  time 
the  sun  was  high  in  heaven  Ashe  the  lawyer, 
turning  to  the  others,  spoke  abruptly  and  to  the 
point. 

"Shall  we  go  into  the  wood  now?"  asked 
Paynter,  and  almost  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"I  will  go  in,"  said  Treherne  simply.  Then, 
296 


The  Wager  of  Squire  Vane 

drawing  up  his  dark  head  in  answer  to  their 
glances,  he  added: 

"No,  do  not  trouble  yourselves.  It  is  never 
the  believer  who  is  afraid." 

For  the  second  time  they  saw  a  man  mount  the 
white  curling  path  and  disappear  into  the  gray 
tangled  wood,  but  this  time  they  did  not  have  to 
wait  long  to  see  him  again. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  reappeared  in  the 
woodland  gateway,  and  came  slowly  toward  them 
across  the  grass.  He  stopped  before  the  doctor, 
who  stood  nearest,  and  said  something.  It  was 
repeated  to  the  others,  and  went  round  the  ring 
with  low  cries  of  incredulity.  The  others  plunged 
into  the  wood  and  returned  wildly,  and  were  seen 
speaking  to  others  again  who  gathered  from  the 
house;  the  wild  wireless  telegraphy  which  is  the 
education  of  countryside  communities  spread  it 
farther  and  farther  before  the  fact  itself  was 
fully  realized;  and  before  nightfall  a  quarter  of 
the  county  knew  that  Squire  Vane  had  vanished 
like  a  burst  bubble. 

Widely  as  the  wild  story  was  repeated,  and 
patiently  as  it  was  pondered,  it  was  long  before 
there  was  even  the  beginning  of  a  sequel  to  it. 
In  the  interval  Paynter  had  politely  removed 
himself  from  the  house  of  mourning,  or  rather 
of  questioning,  but  only  so  far  as  the  village  inn; 
for  Barbara  Vane  was  glad  of  the  traveler's 
experience  and  sympathy,  in  addition  to  that 
297 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

afforded  her  by  the  lawyer  and  doctor  as  old 
friends  of  the  family.  Even  Treherne  was  not 
discouraged  from  his  occasional  visits  with  a 
view  to  helping  the  hunt  for  the  lost  man.  The 
five  held  many  counsels  round  the  old  garden 
table,  at  which  the  unhappy  master  of  the  house 
had  dined  for  the  last  time;  and  Barbara  wore 
her  old  mask  of  stone,  if  it  was  now  a  more 
tragic  mask.  She  had  shown  no  passion  after  the 
first  morning  of  discovery,  when  she  had  broken 
forth  once,  speaking  strangely  enough  in  the  view 
of  some  of  her  hearers. 

She  had  come  slowly  out  of  the  house,  to  which 
her  own  or  some  one  else's  wisdom  had  relegated 
her  during  the  night  of  the  wager;  and  it  was 
clear  from  her  face  that  somebody  had  told  her 
the  truth;  Miles,  the  butler,  stood  on  the  steps 
behind  her;  and  it  was  probably  he. 

"Do  not  be  much  distressed,  Miss  Vane,"  said 
Doctor  Brown,  in  a  low  and  rather  uncertain 
voice.  "The  search  in  the  wood  has  hardly  be- 
gun. I  am  convinced  we  shall  find — something 
quite  simple." 

"The  doctor  is  right,"  said  Ashe,  in  his  firm 
tones ;  "I  myself " 

"The  doctor  is  not  right,"  said  the  girl,  turn- 
ing a  white  face  on  the  speaker,  "I  know  better. 
The  poet  is  right.  The  poet  is  always  right. 
Oh,  he  has  been  here  from  the  beginning  of  the 
world,  and  seen  wonders  and  terrors  that  are  all 
298 


The  Wager  of  Squire  Vane 

round  our  path,  and  only  hiding  behind  a  bush 
or  a  stone.  You  and  your  doctoring  and  your 
science — why,  you  have  only  been  here  for  a  few 
fumbling  generations ;  and  you  can't  conquer  even 
your  own  enemies  of  the  flesh.  Oh,  forgive  me, 
Doctor,  I  know  you  do  splendidly;  but  the  fever 
comes  in  the  village,  and  the  people  die  and  die 
for  all  that.  And  now  it's  my  poor  father.  God 
help  us  all!  The  only  thing  left  is  to  believe  in 
God ;  for  we  can't  help  believing  in  devils."  And 
she  left  them,  still  walking  quite  slowly,  but  in 
such  a  fashion  that  no  one  could  go  after  her. 

The  spring  had  already  begun  to  ripen  into 
summer,  and  spread  a  green  tent  from  the  tree 
over  the  garden  table,  when  the  American  visitor, 
sitting  there  with  his  two  professional  com- 
panions, broke  the  silence  by  saying  what  had 
long  been  in  his  mind. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  whatever  we  may 
think  it  wise  to  say,  we  have  all  begun  to  think 
of  a  possible  conclusion.  It  can't  be  put  very 
delicately  anyhow;  but,  after  all,  there's  a  very 
necessary  business  side  to  it.  What  are  we  going 
to  do  about  poor  Vane's  affairs,  apart  from  him- 
self? I  suppose  you  know,"  he  added,  in  a  low 
voice  to  the  lawyer,  "whether  he  made  a  will?" 

"He  left  everything  to  his  daughter  uncon- 
ditionally," replied  Ashe.  "But  nothing  can  be 
done  with  it.  There's  no  proof  whatever  that 
he's  dead." 

299 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"No  legal  proof?"  remarked  Paynter  dryly. 

A  wrinkle  of  irritation  had  appeared  in  the 
big  bald  brow  of  Doctor  Brown;  and  he  made  an 
impatient  movement. 

"Of  course  he's  dead,"  he  said.  "What's  the 
sense  of  all  this  legal  fuss?  We  were  watching 
this  side  of  the  wood,  weren't  we?  A  man 
couldn't  have  flown  off  those  high  cliffs  over  the 
sea;  he  could  only  have  fallen  off.  What  else 
can  he  be  but  dead?" 

"I  speak  as  a  lawyer,"  returned  Ashe,  raising 
his  eyebrows.  "We  can't  presume  his  death,  or 
have  an  inquest  or  anything  till  we  find  the  poor 
fellow's  body,  or  some  remains  that  may  reason- 
ably be  presumed  to  be  his  body." 

"I  see,"  observed  Paynter  quietly.  "You  speak 
as  a  lawyer;  but  I  don't  think  it's  very  hard  to 
guess  what  you  think  as  a  man." 

"I  own  I'd  rather  be  a  man  than  a  lawyer," 
said  the  doctor,  rather  roughly.  "I'd  no  notion 
the  law  was  such  an  ass.  What's  the  good  of 
keeping  the  poor  girl  out  of  her  property,  and 
the  estate  all  going  to  pieces  ?  Well,  I  must  be 
off,  or  my  patients  will  be  going  to  pieces  too." 

And  with  a  curt  salutation  he  pursued  his  path 
down  to  the  village. 

"That  man  does  his  duty,  if  anybody  does," 
remarked  Paynter.  "We  must  pardon  his — shall 
I  say  manners  or  manner?" 

"Oh,  I  bear  him  no  malice,"  replied  Ashe 
300 


The  Wager  of  Squire  Vane 

good-humoredly,  "But  I'm  glad  he's  gone,  be- 
cause— well,  because  I  don't  want  him  to  know 
how  jolly  right  he  is."  And  he  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  stared  up  at  the  roof  of  green  leaves. 

"You  are  sure,"  said  Paynter,  looking  at  the 
table,  "that  Squire  Vane  is  dead?" 

"More  than  that,"  said  Ashe,  still  staring  at 
the  leaves.    "I'm  sure  of  how  he  died." 

"Ah!"  said  the  American,  with  an  intake  of 
breath,  and  they  remained  for  a  moment,  one 
gazing  at  the  tree  and  the  other  at  the  table. 

"Sure  is  perhaps  too  strong  a  word,"  con- 
tinued Ashe.  "But  my  conviction  will  want 
some  shaking.  I  don't  envy  the  counsel  for  the 
defense." 

"The  counsel  for  the  defense,"  repeated  Payn- 
ter, and  looked  up  quickly  at  his  companion.  He 
was  struck  again  by  the  man's  Napoleonic  chin 
and  jaw,  as  he  had  been  when  they  first  talked 
of  the  legend  of  St.  Securis. 

"Then,"  he  began,  "you  don't  think  the 
trees " 

"The  trees  be  damned!"  snorted  the  lawyer. 
"The  tree  had  two  legs  on  that  evening.  What 
our  friend  the  poet,"  he  added,  with  a  sneer, 
"would  call  a  walking  tree.  Apropos  of  our 
friend  the  poet,  you  seemed  surprised  that  night 
to  find  he  was  not  walking  poetically  by  the  sea 
all  the  time,  and  I  fear  I  affected  to  share  your 
ignorance.  I  was  not  so  sure  then  as  I  am  now." 
301 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"Sure  of  what?"  demanded  the  other. 

"To  begin  with,"  said  Ashe,  "I'm  sure  our 
friend  the  poet  followed  Vane  into  the  wood  that 
night,  for  I  saw  him  coming  out  again." 

Paynter  leaned  forward,  suddenly  pale  with 
excitement,  and  struck  the  wooden  table  so  that 
it  rattled. 

"Mr.  Ashe,  you're  wrong,"  he  cried.  "You're 
a  wonderful  man  and  you're  wrong.  You've 
probably  got  tons  of  true  convincing  evidence, 
and  you're  wrong.  I  know  this  poet ;  I  know  him 
as  a  poet;  and  that's  just  what  you  don't.  I 
know  you  think  he  gave  you  crooked  answers, 
and  seemed  to  be  all  smiles  and  black  looks  at 
once ;  but  you  don't  understand  the  type.  I  know 
now  why  you  don't  understand  the  Irish.  Some- 
times you  think  it's  soft,  and  sometimes  sly,  and 
sometimes  murderous,  and  sometimes  uncivil- 
ized; and  all  the  time  it's  only  civilized;  quiver- 
ing with  the  sensitive  irony  of  understanding  all 
that  you  don't  understand." 

"Well,"  said  Ashe  shortly,  "we'll  see  who's 
right." 

"We  will,"  cried  Cyprian,  and  rose  suddenly 
from  the  table.  All  the  drooping  of  the  aesthete 
had  dropped  from  him;  his  Yankee  accent  rose 
high,  like  a  horn  of  defiance,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing about  him  but  the  New  World. 

"I  guess  I  will  look  into  this  myself,"  he  said, 
stretching  his  long  limbs  like  an  athlete.  "I 
302 


The  Wager  of  Squire  Vane 

search  that  little  wood  of  yours  to-morrow.  It's 
a  bit  late,  or  I'd  do  it  now." 

"The  wood  has  been  searched,"  said  the 
lawyer,  rising  also. 

"Yes,"  drawled  the  American.  "It's  been 
searched  by  servants,  policemen,  local  policeman, 
and  quite  a  lot  of  people ;  and  do  you  know  I  have 
a  notion  that  nobody  round  here  is  likely  to  have 
searched  it  at  all." 

"And.  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?" 
asked  Ashe. 

"What  I  bet  they  haven't  done,"  replied 
Cyprian.     "I'm  going  to  climb  a  tree." 

And  with  a  quaint  air  of  renewed  cheerfulness 
he  took  himself  away  at  a  rapid  walk  to 
his  inn. 

He  appeared  at  daybreak  next  morning  out- 
side the  Vane  Arms  with  all  the  air  of  one  setting 
out  on  his  travels  in  distant  lands.  He  had  a 
field  glass  slung  over  his  shoulder,  and  a  very 
large  sheath  knife  buckled  by  a  belt  round  his 
waist,  and  carried  with  the  cool  bravado  of  the 
bowie  knife  of  a  cowboy.  But  in  spite  of  this 
backwoodsman's  simplicity,  or  perhaps  rather  be- 
cause of  it,  he  eyed  with  rising  relish  the  pic- 
turesque plan  and  sky  line  of  the  antiquated  vil- 
lage, and  especially  the  wooden  square  of  the 
old  inn  sign  that  hung  over  his  head;  a  shield,  of 
which  the  charges  seemed  to  him  a  mere  medley 
of  blue  dolphins,  gold  crosses,  and  scarlet  birds. 
303  4 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

The  colors  and  cubic  corners  of  that  painted 
board  pleased  him  like  a  play  or  a  puppet  show. 
He  stood  staring  and  straddling  for  some  mo- 
ments on  the  cobbles  of  the  little  market  place; 
then  he  gave  a  short  laugh  and  began  to  mount 
the  steep  streets  toward  the  high  park  and  garden 
beyond.  From  the  high  lawn,  above  the  tree 
and  table,  he  could  see  on  one  side  the  land 
stretch  away  past  the  house  into  a  great  rolling 
plain,  which  under  the  clear  edges  of  the  dawn 
seemed  dotted  with  picturesque  details.  The 
woods  here  and  there  on  the  plain  looked  like 
green  hedgehogs,  as  grotesque  as  the  incongru- 
ous beasts  found  unaccountably  walking  in  the 
blank  spaces  of  mediaeval  maps.  The  land,  cut 
up  into  colored  fields,  recalled  the  heraldry  of 
the  signboard;  this  also  was  at  once  ancient  and 
gay.  On  the  other  side  the  ground  to  seaward 
swept  down  and  then  up  again  to  the  famous  or 
infamous  wood;  the  square  of  strange  trees  lay 
silently  tilted  on  the  slope,  also  suggesting,  if 
not  a  map,  or  least  a  bird's-eye  view.  Only  the 
triple  centerpiece  of  the  peacock  trees  rose  clear 
of  the  sky  line;  and  these  stood  up  in  tranquil 
sunlight  as  things  almost  classical,  a  triangular 
temple  of  the  winds.  They  seemed  pagan  in  a 
newer  and  more  placid  sense;  and  he  felt  a  newer 
and  more  boyish  curiosity  and  courage  for  the 
consulting  of  the  oracle.  In  all  his  wanderings 
he  had  never  walked  so  lightly,  for  the  con- 
304 


The  Wager  of  Squire  Vane 

noisseur  of  sensations  had  found  something  to 
do  at  last;  he  was  fighting  for  a  friend. 

He  was  brought  to  a  standstill  once,  however, 
and  that  at  the  very  gateway  of  the  garden  of 
the  trees  of  knowledge.  Just  outside  the  black 
entry  of  the  wood,  now  curtained  with  greener 
and  larger  leafage,  he  came  on  a  solitary  figure. 
It  was  Martin,  the  woodcutter,  wading  in  the 
bracken  and  looking  about  him  in  rather  a  lost 
fashion.  The  man  seemed  to  be  talking  to  himself. 

"I  dropped  it  here,"  he  was  saying.  "But  I'll 
never  work  with  it  again  I  reckon.  Doctor 
wouldn't  let  me  pick  it  up,  when  I  wanted  to  pick 
it  up;  and  now  they've  got  it,  like  they've  got 
the  Squire.  Wood  and  iron,  wood  and  iron,  but 
eating  it's  nothing  to  them." 

"Come !"  said  Paynter  kindly,  remembering 
the  man's  domestic  trouble.  "Miss  Vane  will 
see  you  have  anything  you  want,  I  know.  And 
look  here,  don't  brood  on  all  those  stories 
about  the  Squire.  Is  there  the  slightest  trace  of 
the  trees  having  anything  to  do  with  it?  Is 
there  even  this  extra  branch  the  idiots  talked 
about?" 

There  had  been  growing  on  Paynter  the  sus- 
picion that  the  man  before  him  was  not  perfectly 
sane;  yet  he  was  much  more  startled  by  the 
sudden  and  cold  sanity  that  looked  for  an  instant 
out  of  the  woodman's  eyes,  as  he  answered  in 
his  ordinary  manner. 

305 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"Well,  sir,  did  you  count  th'e  branches 
before ?" 

Then  he  seemed  to  relapse;  and  Paynter  left 
him  wandering  and  wavering  in  the  undergrowth ; 
and  entered  the  wood  like  one  across  whose 
sunny  path  a  shadow  has  fallen  for  an  instant. 

Diving  under  the  wood,  he  was  soon  threading 
a  leafy  path  which,  even  under  that  summer  sun, 
shone  only  with  an  emerald  twilight,  as  if  it 
were  on  the  floor  of  the  sea.  It  wound  about 
more  shakily  than  he  had  supposed,  as  if  re- 
solved to  approach  the  central  trees  as  if  they 
were  the  heart  of  the  maze  at  Hampton  Court. 
They  were  the  heart  of  the  maze  for  him,  any- 
how; he  sought  them  as  straight  as  a  crooked 
road  would  carry  him;  and,  turning  a  final  cor- 
ner, he  beheld,  for  the  first  time,  the  foundations 
of  those  towers  of  vegetation  he  had  as  yet  only 
seen  from  above,  as  they  stood  waist-high  in  the 
woodland.  He  found  the  suspicion  correct  which 
supposed  the  tree  branched  from  one  great  root, 
like  a  candelabrum ;  the  fork,  though  stained  and 
slimy  with  green  fungoids,  was  quite  near  the 
ground,  and  offered  a  first  foothold.  He  put  his 
foot  in  it,  and  without  a  flash  of  hesitation  went 
aloft,  like  Jack  climbing  the  Bean  stalk. 

Above  him  the  green  roof  of  leaves  and  boughs 

seemed  sealed  like  a  firmament  of  foliage;  but, 

by  bending  and  breaking  the  branches  to  right 

and  left  he  slowly  forced  a  passage  upward; 

306 


The  Wager  of  Squire  Vane 

and  had  at  last,  and  suddenly,  the  sensation  of 
coming  out  on  the  top  of  the  world.  He  felt  as 
if  he  had  never  been  in  the  open  air  before. 
Sea  and  land  lay  in  a  circle  below  and  about  him, 
as  he  sat  astride  a  branch  of  the  tall  tree ;  he  was 
almost  surprised  to  see  the  sun  still  comparatively 
low  in  the  sky ;  as  if  he  were  looking  over  a  land 
of  eternal  sunrise. 

"Silent  upon  a  peak  in  Darien,"  he  remarked, 
in  a  needlessly  loud  and  cheerful  voice;  and 
though  the  claim,  thus  expressed,  was  illogical, 
it  was  not  inappropriate.  He  did  feel  as  if  he 
were  a  primitive  adventurer  just  come  to  the  New 
World,  instead  of  a  modern  traveler  just  come 
from  it. 

"I  wonder,"  he  proceeded,  "whether  I  am 
really  the  first  that  ever  burst  into  this  silent 
tree.    It  looks  like  it.    Those " 

He  stopped  and  sat  on  his  branch  quite  motion- 
less, but  his  eyes  were  turned  on  a  branch  a  little 
below  it,  and  they  were  brilliant  with  a  vigilance, 
like  those  of  a  man  watching  a  snake. 

What  he  was  looking  at  might,  at  first  sight, 
have  been  a  large  white  fungus  spreading  on 
the  smooth  and  monstrous  trunk;  but  it  was  not. 
Leaning  down  dangerously  from  his  perch,  he 
detached  it  from  the  twig  on  which  it  had  caught, 
and  then  sat  holding  it  in  his  hand  and  gazing 
at  it.  It  was  Squire  Vane's  white  Panama  hat, 
but  there  was  no  Squire  Vane  under  it.  Paynter 
307 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

felt  a  nameless  relief  in  the  very  fact  that  there 
was  not. 

There  in  the  clear  sunlight  and  sea  air,  for  an 
instant,  all  the  tropical  terrors  of  his  own  idle 
tale  surrounded  and  suffocated  him.  It  seemed 
indeed  some  demon  tree  of  the  swamps;  a  vege- 
table serpent  that  fed  on  men.  Even  the  hideous 
farce  in  the  fancy  of  digesting  a  whole  man  with 
the  exception  of  his  hat,  seemed  only  to  simplify 
the  nightmare.  And  he  found  himself  gazing 
dully  at  one  leaf  of  the  tree,  which  happened 
to  be  turned  toward  him,  so  that  the  odd  mark- 
ings, which  had  partly  made  the  legend,  really 
looked  a  little  like  the  eye  in  a  peacock's  feather. 
It  was  as  if  the  sleeping  tree  had  opened  one  eye 
upon  him. 

With  a  sharp  effort  he  steadied  himself  in 
mind  and  posture  on  the  bough ;  his  reason  re- 
turned, and  he  began  to  descend  with  the  hat  in 
his  teeth.  When  he  was  back  in  the  under- 
world of  the  wood,  he  studied  the  hat  again  and 
with  closer  attention.  In  one  place  in  the  crown 
there  was  a  hole  or  rent,  which  certainly  had 
not  been  there  when  it  had  last  lain  on  the  table 
under  the  garden  tree.  He  sat  down,  lit  a 
cigarette,  and  reflected  for  a  long  time. 

A  wood,  even  a  small  wood,  is  not  an  easy 
thing  to  search  minutely;  but  he  provided  him- 
self with  some  practical  tests  in  the  matter.  In 
one  sense  the  very  density  of  the  thicket  was  a 
308 


The  Wager  of  Squire  Vane 

help;  he  could  at  least  see  where  anyone  had 
strayed  from  the  path,  by  broken  and  trampled 
growths  of  every  kind.  After  many  hours'  in- 
dustry, he  had  made  a  sort  of  new  map  of  the 
place;  and  had  decided  beyond  doubt  that  some 
person  or  persons  had  so  strayed,  for  some  pur- 
pose, in  several  defined  directions.  There  was 
a  way  burst  through  the  bushes,  making  a  short 
cut  across  a  loop  of  the  wandering  path;  there 
was  another  forking  out  from  it  as  an  alterna- 
tive way  into  the  central  space.  But  there  was 
one  especially  which  was  unique,  and  which 
seemed  to  him,  the  more  he  studied  it,  to  point 
to  some  essential  of  the  mystery. 

One  of  these  beaten  and  broken  tracks  went 
from  the  space  under  the  peacock  trees  out- 
fward  into  the  wood  for  about  twenty  yards  and 
then  stopped.  Beyond  that  point  not  a  twig  was 
broken  nor  a  leaf  disturbed.  It  had  no  exit, 
but  he  could  not  believe  that  it  had  no  goal.  After 
some  further  reflection,  he  knelt  down  and  began 
to  cut  away  grass  and  clay  with  his  knife,  and 
was  surprised  at  the  ease  with  which  they  de- 
tached themselves.  In  a  few  moments  a  whole 
section  of  the  soil  lifted  like  a  lid;  it  was  a  round 
lid  and  presented  a  quaint  appearance,  like  a 
flat  cap  with  green  feathers.  For  though  the 
disc  itself  was  made  of  wood,  there  was  a  layer 
of  earth  on  it  with  the  live  grass  still  growing 
there.  And  the  removal  of  the  round  lid  re- 
309 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

vealed  a  round  hole,  black  as  night  and  seemingly 
bottomless.  Paynter  understood  it  instantly.  It 
was  rather  near  the  sea  for  a  well  to  be  sunk, 
but  the  traveler  had  known  wells  sunk  even 
nearer.  He  rose  to  his  feet  with  the  great  knife 
in  his  hand,  a  frown  on  his  face,  and  his  doubts 
resolved.  He  no  longer  shrank  from  naming 
what  he  knew.  This  was  not  the  first  corpse 
that  had  been  thrown  down  a  well;  here,  without 
stone  or  epitaph,  was  the  grave  of  Squire  Vane. 
In  a  flash  all  the  mythological  follies  about  saints 
and  peacocks  were  forgotten ;  he  was  knocked  on 
the  head,  as  with  a  stone  club,  by  the  human 
common  sense  of  crime. 

Cyprian  Paynter  stood  long  by  the  well  in 
the  wood,  walked  round  it  in  meditation,  ex- 
amined its  rim  and  the  ring  of  grass  about  it, 
searched  the  surrounding  soil  thoroughly,  came 
back  and  stood  beside  the  well  once  more.  His 
researches  and  reflections  had  been  so  long  that 
he  had  not  realized  that  the  day  had  passed  and 
that  the  wood  and  the  world  round  it  were 
beginning  already  to  be  steeped  in  the  enrich- 
ment of  evening.  The  day  had  been  radiantly 
calm;  the  sea  seemed  to  be  as  still  as  the  well, 
and  the  well  was  as  still  as  a  mirror.  And  then, 
quite  without  warning,  the  mirror  moved  of  itself 
like  a  living  thing. 

In  the  well,  in  the  wood,  the  water  leapt  and 
gurgled,  with  a  grotesque  noise  like  something 
310 


The  Wager  of  Squire  Vane 

swallowing,  and  then  settled  again  with  a  second 
sound.  Cyprian  could  not  see  into  the  well 
clearly,  for  the  opening,  from  where  he  stood, 
was  an  ellipse,  a  mere  slit,  and  half  masked  by 
thistles  and  rank  grass  like  a  green  beard.  For 
where  he  stood  now  was  three  yards  away  from 
the  well,  and  he  had  not  yet  himself  realized 
that  he  had  sprung  back  all  that  distance  from 
the  brink  when  the  water  spoke. 

'21 


Ill 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  WELL 

/^■YPRIAN  PAYNTER  did  not  know  what  he 
^-^  expected  to  see  rise  out  of  the  well — the 
corpse  of  the  murdered  man  or  merely  the  spirit 
of  the  fountain.  Anyhow,  neither  of  them  rose 
out  of  it,  and  he  recognized  after  an  instant 
that  this  was,  after  all,  perhaps  the  more  natural 
course  of  things.  Once  more  he  pulled  himself 
together,  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  well  and 
looked  down.  He  saw,  as  before,  a  dim  glimmer 
of  water,  at  that  depth  no  brighter  than  ink; 
he  fancied  he  still  heard  a  faint  convulsion  and 
murmur,  but  it  gradually  subsided  to  an  utter 
stillness.  Short  of  suicidally  diving  in,  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  He  realized  that,  with  all 
his  equipment,  he  had  not  even  brought  anything 
like  a  rope  or  basket,  and  at  length  decided  to 
return  for  them.  As  he  retraced  his  steps  to  the 
entrance,  he  recurred  to,  and  took  stock  of,  his 
more  solid  discoveries.  Somebody  had  gone  into 
the  wood,  killed  the  Squire  and  thrown  him  down 
the  well,  but  he  did  not  admit  for  a  moment  that 
it  was  his  friend  the  poet;  but  if  the  latter  had 
actually  been  seen  coming  out  of  the  wood  the 
312 


The  Mystery  of  the  Well 

matter  was  serious.  As  he  walked  the  rapidly 
darkening  twilight  was  cloven  with  red  gleams, 
that  made  him  almost  fancy  for  a  moment  that 
some  fantastic  criminal  had  set  fire  to  the  tiny 
forest  as  he  fled.  A  second  glance  showed  him 
nothing  but  one  of  those  red  sunsets  in  which 
such  serene  days  sometimes  close. 

As  he  came  out  of  the  gloomy  gate  of  trees 
into  the  full  glow  he  saw  a  dark  figure  standing 
quite  still  in  the  dim  bracken,  on  the  spot  where 
he  had  left  the  woodcutter.  It  was  not  the 
woodcutter. 

It  was  topped  by  a  tall  black  hat  of  a  funeral 
type,  and  the  whole  figure  stood  so  black  against 
the  field  of  crimson  fire  that  edged  the  sky  line 
that  he  could  not  for  an  instant  understand  or 
recall  it.  When  he  did,  it  was  with  an  odd 
change  in  the  whole  channel  of  his  thoughts. 

"Doctor  Brown!"  he  cried.  "Why,  what  are 
you  doing  up  here?" 

"I  have  been  talking  to  poor  Martin,'*  an- 
swered the  doctor,  and  made  a  rather  awkward 
movement  with  his  hand  toward  the  road  down 
to  the  village.  Following  the  gesture,  Paynter 
dimly  saw  another  dark  figure  walking  down  in 
the  blood-red  distance.  He  also  saw  that  the 
hand  motioning  was  really  black,  and  not  merely 
in  shadow;  and,  coming  nearer,  found  the 
doctor's  dress  was  really  funereal,  down  to  the 
detail  of  the  dark  gloves.  It  gave  the  American 
3i3 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

a  small  but  queer  shock,  as  if  this  were  actually 
an  undertaker  come  up  to  bury  the  corpse  that 
could  not  be  found. 

"Poor  Martin's  been  looking  for  his  chopper," 
observed  Doctor  Brown,  ubut  I  told  him  I'd 
picked  it  up  and  kept  it  for  him.  Between  our- 
selves, I  hardly  think  he's  fit  to  be  trusted  with 
it."  Then,  seeing  the  glance  at  his  black  garb,  he 
added:  "I've  just  been  to  a  funeral.  Did  you 
know  there's  been  another  loss?  Poor  Jake 
the  fisherman's  wife,  down  in  the  cottage  on 
the  shore,  you  know.  This  infernal  fever,  of 
course." 

As  they  both  turned,  facing  the  red  evening 
light,  Paynter  instinctively  made  a  closer  study, 
not  merely  of  the  doctor's  clothes,  but  of  the 
doctor.  Dr.  Burton  Brown  was  a  tall,  alert 
man,  neatly  dressed,  who  would  otherwise  have 
had  an  almost  military  air  but  for  his  spectacles 
and  an  almost  painful  intellectualism  in  his  lean 
brown  face  and  bald  brow.  The  contrast  was 
clinched  by  the  fact  that,  while  his  face  was  of 
the  ascetic  type  generally  conceived  as  clean- 
shaven, he  had  a  strip  of  dark  mustache  cut  too 
short  for  him  to  bite,  and  yet  a  mouth  that 
often  moved  as  if  trying  to  bite  it.  He  might 
have  been  a  very  intelligent  army  surgeon,  but 
he  had  more  the  look  of  an  engineer  or  one  of 
those  services  that  combine  a  military  silence  with 
a  more  than  military  science.  Paynter  had  al- 
314 


The  Mystery  of  the  Well 

ways  respected  something  ruggedly  reliable  about 
the  man,  and  after  a  little  hesitation  he  told  him 
all  the  discoveries. 

The  doctor  took  the  hat  of  the  dead  Squire 
in  his  hand,  and  examined  it  with  frowning  care. 
He  put  one  finger  through  the  hole  in  the  crown 
and  moved  it  meditatively.  And  Paynter  realized 
how  fanciful  his  own  fatigue  must  have  made 
him ;  for  so  silly  a  thing  as  the  black  finger  wag- 
gling through  the  rent  in  that  frayed  white  relic 
unreasonably  displeased  him.  The  doctor  soon 
made  the  same  discovery  with  professional  acute- 
ness,  and  applied  it  much  further.  For  when 
Paynter  began  to  tell  him  of  the  moving  water 
in  the  well  he  looked  at  him  a  moment  through 
his  spectacles,  and  then  said: 

"Did  you  have  any  lunch?" 

Paynter  for  the  first  time  realized  that  he 
had,  as  a  fact,  worked  and  thought  furiously  all 
day  without  food. 

"Please  don't  fancy  I  mean  you  had  too  much 
lunch,"  said  the  medical  man,  with  mournful 
humor.  "On  the  contrary,  I  mean  you  had  too 
little.  I  think  you  are  a  bit  knocked  out,  and 
your  nerves  exaggerate  things.  Anyhow,  let  me 
advise  you  not  to  do  any  more  to-night.  There's 
nothing  to  be  done  without  ropes  or  some  sort 
of  fishing  tackle,  if  with  that;  but  I  think  I  can 
get  you  some  of  the  sort  of  grappling  irons  the 
fishermen  use  for  dragging.  Poor  Jake's  got 
♦  3i5 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

some,  I  know;  I'll  bring  them  round  to  you  to- 
morrow morning.  The  fact  is,  I'm  staying  there 
for  a  bit  as  he's  rather  in  a  state,  and  I  think  it's 
better  for  me  to  ask  for  the  things  and  not  a 
stranger.    I  am  sure  you'll  understand." 

Paynter  understood  sufficiently  to  assent,  and 
hardly  knew  why  he  stood  vacantly  watching  the 
doctor  make  his  way  down  the  steep  road  to  the 
shore  and  the  fisher's  cottage.  Then  he  threw 
off  thoughts  he  had  not  examined,  or  even  con- 
sciously entertained,  and  walked  slowly  and 
rather  heavily  back  to  the  Vane  Arms. 

The  doctor,  still  funereal  in  manner,  though  no 
longer  so  in  costume,  appeared  punctually  under 
the  wooden  sign  next  morning,  laden  with  what 
he  had  promised;  an  apparatus  of  hooks  and  a 
hanging  net  for  hoisting  up  anything  sunk  to  a 
reasonable  depth.  He  was  about  to  proceed  on 
his  professional  round,  and  said  nothing  further 
to  deter  the  American  from  proceeding  on  his 
own  very  unprofessional  experiment  as  a  detec- 
tive. That  buoyant  amateur  had  indeed  re- 
covered most,  if  not  all,  of  yesterday's  buoyancy, 
was  now  well  fitted  to  pass  any  medical  examina- 
tion, and  returned  with  all  his  own  energy  to  the 
scene  of  yesterday's  labors. 

It  may  well  have  brightened  and  made  breezier 

his  second  day's  toil  that  he  had  not  only  the 

sunlight  and  the  bird's  singing  in  the  little  wood, 

to  say  nothing  of  a  more  scientific  apparatus  to 

3i6 


The  Mystery  of  the  Well 

work  with,  but  also  human  companionship,  and 
that  of  the  most  intelligent  type.  After  leaving 
the  doctor  and  before  leaving  the  village  he  had 
bethought  himself  of  seeking  the  little  court  or 
square  where  stood  the  quiet  brown  house  of 
Andrew  Ashe,  solicitor,  and  the  operations  of 
dragging  were  worked  in  double  harness.  Two 
heads  were  peering  over  the  well  in  the  wood: 
one  yellow-haired,  lean  and  eager;  the  other  red- 
haired,  heavy  and  pondering;  and  if  it  be  true 
that  two  heads  are  better  than  one,  it  is  truer 
that  four  hands  are  better  than  two.  In  any 
case,  their  united  and  repeated  efforts  bore  fruit 
at  last,  if  anything  so  hard  and  meager  and  for- 
lorn can  be  called  a  fruit.  It  weighed  loosely  in 
the  net  as  it  was  lifted,  and  rolled  out  on  the 
grassy  edge  of  the  well ;  it  was  a  bone. 

Ashe  picked  it  up  and  stood  with  it  in  his  hand, 
frowning. 

"We  want  Doctor  Brown  here,"  he  said. 
"This  may  be  the  bone  of  some  animal.  Any 
dog  or  sheep  might  fall  into  a  hidden  well." 
Then  he  broke  off,  for  his  companion  was  already 
detaching  a  second  bone  from  the  net. 

After  another  half  hour's  effort  Paynter  had 
occasion  to  remark,  "It  must  have  been  rather  a 
large  dog."  There  were  already  a  heap  of  such 
white  fragments  at  his  feet. 

"I  have  seen  nothing  yet,"  said  Ashe,  speaking 
more  plainly.  "That  is  certainly  a  human  bone." 
3i7 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"I  fancy  this  must  be  a  human  bone,"  said 
the  American. 

And  he  turned  away  a  little  as  he  handed  the 
other  a  skull. 

There  was  no  doubt  of  what  sort  of  skull; 
there  was  the  one  unique  curve  that  holds  the 
mystery  of  reason,  and  underneath  it  the  two 
black  holes  that  had  held  human  eyes.  But 
just  above  that  on  the  left  was  another  and 
smaller  black  hole,  which  was  not  an  eye. 

Then  the  lawyer  said,  with  something  like  an 
effort :  "We  may  admit  it  is  a  man  without  ad- 
mitting it  is — any  particular  man.  There  may  be 
something,  after  all,  in  that  yarn  about  the 
drunkard;  he  may  have  tumbled  into  the  well. 
Under  certain  conditions,  after  certain  natural 
processes,  I  fancy,  the  bones  might  be  stripped 
in  this  way,  even  without  the  skill  of  any  assassin. 
We  want  the  doctor  again." 

Then  he  added  suddenly,  and  the  very  sound 
of  his  voice  suggested  that  he  hardly  believed  his 
own  words. 

"Haven't  you  got  poor  Vane's  hat  there  ?" 

He  took  it  from  the  silent  American's  hand, 
and  with  a  sort  of  hurry  fitted  it  on  the  bony 
head. 

"Don't!"  said  the  other  involuntarily. 

The  lawyer  had  put  his  finger,  as  the  doctor 
had  done,  through  the  hole  in  the  hat,  and  it  lay 
exactly  over  the  hole  in  the  skull. 
318 


The  Mystery  of  the  Well, 

"I  have  the  better  right  to  shrink,"  he  said 
steadily,  but  in  a  vibrant  voice.  "I  think  I  am  the 
older  friend." 

Paynter  nodded  without  speech,  accepting  the 
final  identification.  The  last  doubt,  or  hope,  had 
departed,  and  he  turned  to  the  dragging  appa- 
ratus, and  did  not  speak  till  he  had  made  his 
last  find. 

The  singing  of  the  birds  seemed  to  grow  louder 
about  them,  and  the  dance  of  the  green  summer 
leaves  was  repeated  beyond  in  the  dance  of  the 
green  summer  sea.  Only  the  great  roots  of  the 
mysterious  trees  could  be  seen,  the  rest  being  far 
aloft,  and  all  round  it  was  a  wood  of  little,  lively 
and  happy  things.  They  might  have  been  two 
innocent  naturalists,  or  even  two  children  fish- 
ing for  eels  or  tittlebats  on  that  summer  holiday 
when  Paynter  pulled  up  something  that  weighed 
in  the  net  more  heavily  than  any  bone.  It  nearly 
broke  the  meshes,  and  fell  against  a  mossy  stone 
with  a  clang. 

"Truth  lies  at  the  bottom  of  a  well,"  cried 
the  American,  with  lift  in  his  voice.  "The  wood- 
man's ax." 

It  lay,  indeed,  flat  and  gleaming  in  the  grasses 
by  the  well  in  the  wood,  just  as  it  had  lain  in  the 
thicket  where  the  woodman  threw  it  in  the  begin- 
ning of  all  these  things.  But  on  one  corner  of 
the  bright  blade  was  a  dull  brown  stain. 

"I  see,"  said  Ashe,  "the  woodman's  ax,  and 
3i9 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

therefore  the  woodman.  Your  deductions  are 
rapid." 

"My  deductions  are  reasonable,"  said  Paynter. 
"Look  here,  Mr.  Ashe;  I  know  what  you're 
thinking.  I  know  you  distrust  Treherne;  but 
I'm  sure  you  will  be  just  for  all  that.  To  begin 
with,  surely  the  first  assumption  is  that  the  wood- 
man's ax  is  used  by  the  woodman.  What  have 
you  to  say  to  it?" 

"I  say  'No'  to  it,"  replied  the  lawyer.  "The 
last  weapon  a  woodman  would  use  would  be  a 
woodman's  ax;  that  is  if  he  is  a  sane  man." 

"He  isn't,"  said  Paynter  quietly;  "you  said 
you  wanted  the  doctor's  opinion  just  now.  The 
doctor's  opinion  on  this  point  is  the  same  as  my 
own.  We  both  found  him  meandering  about  out- 
side there;  it's  obvious  this  business  has  gone  to 
his  head,  at  any  rate.  If  the  murderer  were  a 
man  of  business  like  yourself,  what  you  say  might 
be  sound.  But  this  murderer  is  a  mystic.  He 
was  driven  by  some  fanatical  fad  about  the  trees. 
It's  quite  likely  he  thought  there  was  something 
solemn  and  sacrificial  about  the  ax,  and  would 
have  liked  to  cut  off  Vane's  head  before  a  crowd, 
like  Charles  I's.  He's  looking  for  the  ax  still, 
and  probably  thinks  it  a  holy  relic." 

"For  which  reason,"  said  Ashe,  smiling,  "he 
instantly  chucked  it  down  a  well." 

Paynter  laughed. 

"You  have  me  there  certainly,"  he  said.  "But 
320 


The  Mystery  of  the  Well 

I  think  you  have  something  else  in  your  mind. 
You'll  say,  I  suppose,  that  we  were  all  watching 
the  wood ;  but  were  we  ?  Frankly,  I  could  almost 
fancy  the  peacock  trees  did  strike  me  with  a  sort 
of  sickness — a  sleeping  sickness." 

"Well,"  admitted  Ashe,  "you  have  me  there 
too.  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  swear  I  was  awake 
all  the  time;  but  I  don't  put  it  down  to  magic 
trees — only  to  a  private  hobby  of  going  to  bed 
at  night.  But  look  here,  Mr.  Paynter;  there's 
another  and  better  argument  against  any  out- 
sider from  the  village  or  countryside  having  com- 
mitted the  crime.  Granted  he  might  have  slipped 
past  us  somehow,  and  gone  for  the  Squire.  But 
why  should  he  go  for  him  in  the  wood?  How 
did  he  know  he  was  in  the  wood  ?  You  remember 
how  suddenly  the  poor  old  boy  bolted  into  it, 
on  what  a  momentary  impulse.  It's  the  last 
place  where  one  would  normally  look  for  such  a 
man  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  No,  it's  an  ugly 
thing  to  say,  but  we,  the  group  round  that  garden 
table,  were  the  only  people  who  knew.  Which 
brings  me  back  to  the  one  point  in  your  remarks 
which  I  happen  to  think  perfectly  true." 

"What  was  that?"  inquired  the  other. 

uThat  the  murderer  was  a  mystic,"  said  Ashe. 
"But  a  cleverer  mystic  than  poor  old  Martin." 

Paynter  made  a  murmur  of  protest,  and  then 
fell  silent. 

"Let  us  talk  plainly,"  resumed  the  lawyer. 
321 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"Treherne  had  all  those  mad  motives  you  your- 
self admit  against  the  woodcutter.  He  had  the 
knowledge  of  Vane's  whereabouts,  which  nobody 
can  possibly  attribute  to  the  woodcutter.  But 
he  had  much  more.  Who  taunted  and  goaded 
the  Squire  to  go  into  the  wood  at  all?  Treherne. 
Who  practically  prophesied,  like  an  infernal 
quack  astrologer,  that  something  would  happen 
to  him  if  he  did  go  into  the  wood?  Treherne. 
Who  was,  for  some  reason,  no  matter  what, 
obviously  burning  with  rage  and  restlessness  all 
that  night,  kicking  his  legs  impatiently  to  and  fro 
on  the  cliff,  and  breaking  out  with  wild  words 
about  it  being  all  over  soon?  Treherne.  And 
on  top  of  all  this,  when  I  walked  closer  to  the 
wood,  whom  did  I  see  slip  out  of  it  swiftly  and 
silently  like  a  shadow,  but  turning  his  face  once 
to  the  moon?  On  my  oath  and  on  my  honor — 
Treherne." 

"It  is  awful,"  said  Paynter,  like  a  man  stunned. 
"What  you  say  is  simply  awful." 

"Yes,"  said  Ashe  seriously,  "very  awful,  but 
very  simple.  Treherne  knew  where  the  ax  was 
originally  thrown.  I  saw  him,  on  that  day  he 
lunched  here  first,  watching  it  like  a  wolf,  while 
Miss  Vane  was  talking  to  him.  On  that  dread- 
ful night  he  could  easily  have  picked  it  up  as  he 
went  into  the  wood.  He  knew  about  the  well, 
no  doubt;  who  was  so  likely  to  know  any  old 
traditions  about  the  peacock  trees?  He  hid  the 
322 


The  Mystery  of  the  Well 

hat  in  the  trees,  where  perhaps  he  hoped  (though 
the  point  is  unimportant)  that  nobody  would 
dare  to  look.  Anyhow,  he  hid  it,  simply  because 
it  was  the  one  thing  that  would  not  sink  in  the 
well.  Mr.  Paynter,  do  you  think  I  would  say 
this  of  any  man  in  mere  mean  dislike?  Could 
any  man  say  it  of  any  man  unless  the  case  was 
complete,  as  this  is  complete?" 

"It  is  complete,"  said  Paynter,  very  pale.  "I 
have  nothing  left  against  it  but  a  faint,  irrational 
feeling;  a  feeling  that,  somehow  or  other,  if  poor 
Vane  could  stand  alive  before  us  at  this  moment 
he  might  tell  some  other  and  even  more  incred- 
ible tale." 

Ashe  made  a  mournful  gesture. 

"Can  these  dry  bones  live?"  he  said. 

"Lord  Thou  knowest,"  answered  the  other 
mechanically.    "Even  these  dry  bones " 

And  he  stopped  suddenly  with  his  mouth  open, 
a  blinding  light  of  wonder  in  his  pale  eyes. 

"See  here,"  he  said  hoarsely  and  hastily.  "You 
have  said  the  word.  What  does  it  mean?  What 
can  it  mean?  Dry?  Why  are  these  bones  dry?" 

The  lawyer  started  and  stared  down  at  the 
heap. 

"Your  case  complete!"  cried  Paynter,  in 
mounting  excitement.  "Where  is  the  water  in 
the  well?  The  water  I  saw  leap  like  a  flame? 
Why  did  it  leap?  Where  is  it  gone  to?  Com- 
plete !  We  are  buried  under  riddles." 
323 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

Ashe  stooped,  picked  up  a  bone  and  looked 
at  it. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said,  in  a  low  and  shaken 
voice :  "this  bone  is  as  dry — as  a  bone." 

"Yes,  I  am  right,"  replied  Cyprian.  "And 
your  mystic  is  still  as  mysterious — as  a  mystic." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Ashe  laid  down  the 
bone,  picked  up  the  ax  and  studied  it  more  closely. 
Beyond  the  dull  stain  at  the  corner  of  the  steel 
there  was  nothing  unusual  about  it  save  a  broad 
white  rag  wrapped  round  the  handle,  perhaps  to 
give  a  better  grip.  The  lawyer  thought  it  worth 
noting,  however,  that  the  rag  was  certainly 
newer  and  cleaner  than  the  chopper.  But  both 
were  quite  dry. 

"Mr.  Paynter,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  admit  you 
have  scored,  in  the  spirit  if  not  in  the  letter.  In 
strict  logic,  this  greater  puzzle  is  not  a  reply  to 
my  case.  If  this  ax  has  not  been  dipped  in  water, 
it  has  been  dipped  in  blood;  and  the  water  jump- 
ing out  of  the  well  is  not  an  explanation  of  the 
poet  jumping  out  of  the  wood.  But  I  admit  that 
morally  and  practically  it  does  make  a  vital  differ- 
ence. We  are  not  faced  with  a  colossal  contra- 
diction, and  we  don't  know  how  far  it  extends. 
The  body  might  have  been  broken  up  or  boiled 
down  to  its  bones  by  the  murderer,  though  it  may 
be  hard  to  connect  it  with  the  conditions  of  the 
murder.  It  might  conceivably  have  been  so  re- 
duced by  some  property  in  the  water  and  soil, 
324 


The  Mystery  of  the  Well 

for  decomposition  varies  vastly  with  these  things. 
I  should  not  dismiss  my  strong  prima  facie  case 
against  the  likely  person  because  of  these  diffi- 
culties. But  here  we  have  something  entirely 
different.  That  the  bones  themselves  should  re- 
main dry  in  a  well  full  of  water,  or  a  well  that 
yesterday  was  full  of  water — that  brings  us  to 
the  edge  of  something  beyond  which  we  can  make 
no  guess.  There  is  a  new  factor,  enormous  and 
quite  unknown.  While  we  can't  fit  together  such 
prodigious  facts,  we  can't  fit  together  a  case 
against  Treherne  or  against  anybody.  No ;  there 
is  only  one  thing  to  be  done  now.  Since  we  can't 
accuse  Treherne,  we  must  appeal  to  him.  We 
must  put  the  case  against  him  frankly  before 
him,  and  trust  he  has  an  explanation — and  will 
give  it.    I  suggest  we  go  back  and  do  it  now." 

Paynter,  beginning  to  follow,  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  said :  "Forgive  me  for  a  kind  of 
liberty;  as  you  say,  you  are  an  older  friend  of 
the  family.  I  entirely  agree  with  your  sugges- 
tion, but  before  you  act  on  your  present  sus- 
picions, do  you  know,  I  think  Miss  Vane  ought  to 
be  warned  a  little?  I  rather  fear  all  this  will 
be  a  new  shock  to  her." 

"Very  well,"  said  Ashe,  after  looking  at  him 
steadily  for  an  instant.  "Let  us  go  across  to 
her  first." 

From  the  opening  of  the  wood  they  could  see 
Barbara  Vane  writing  at  the  garden  table,  which 
325 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

was  littered  with  correspondence,  and  the  butler 
with  his  yellow  face  waiting  behind  her  chair. 
As  the  lengths  of  grass  lessened  between  them, 
and  the  little  group  at  the  table  grew  larger  and 
clearer  in  the  sunlight,  Paynter  had  a  painful 
sense  of  being  part  of  an  embassy  of  doom.  It 
sharpened  when  the  girl  looked  up  from  the 
table  and  smiled  on  seeing  them. 

"I  should  like  to  speak  to  you  rather  par- 
ticularly if  I  may,"  said  the  lawyer,  with  a  touch 
of  authority  in  his  respect ;  and  when  the  butler 
was  dismissed  he  laid  open  the  whole  matter 
before  her,  speaking  sympathetically,  but  leaving 
out  nothing,  from  the  strange  escape  of  the  poet 
from  the  wood  to  the  last  detail  of  the  dry  bones 
out  of  the  well.  No  fault  could  be  found  with 
any  one  of  his  tones  or  phrases,  and  yet  Cyprian, 
tingling  in  every  nerve  with  the  fine  delicacy  of 
his  nation  about  the  other  sex,  felt  as  if  she  were 
faced  with  an  inquisitor.  He  stood  about  un- 
easily, watched  the  few  colored  clouds  in  the 
clear  sky  and  the  bright  birds  darting  about  the 
wood,  and  he  heartily  wished  himself  up  the 
tree  again. 

Soon,  however,  the  way  the  girl  took  it  began 
to  move  him  to  perplexity  rather  than  pity.  It 
was  like  nothing  he  had  expected,  and  yet  he 
could  not  name  the  shade  of  difference.  The 
final  identification  of  her  father's  skull,  by  the 
hole  in  the  hat,  turned  her  a  little  pale,  but  left 
326 


The  Mystery  of  the  Well 

her  composed;  this  was,  perhaps,  explicable,  since 
she  had  from  the  first  taken  the  pessimistic  view. 
But  during  the  rest  of  the  tale  there  rested  on 
her  broad  brows  under  her  copper  coils  of  hair, 
a  brooding  spirit  that  was  itself  a  mystery.  He 
could  only  tell  himself  that  she  was  less  merely 
receptive,  either  firmly  or  weakly,  than  he  would 
have  expected.  It  was  as  if  she  revolved,  not 
their  problem,  but  her  own.  She  was  silent  a 
long  time,  and  said  at  last: 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Ashe,  I  am  really  very  grate- 
ful for  this.  After  all,  it  brings  things  to  the 
point  where  they  must  have  come  sooner  or 
later."  She  looked  dreamily  at  the  wood  and 
sea,  and  went  on:  "I've  not  only  had  myself  to 
consider,  you  see;  but  if  you're  really  thinking 
that,  it's  time  I  spoke  out,  without  asking  any- 
body. You  say,  as  if  it  were  something  very 
dreadful,  'Mr.  Treherne  was  in  the  wood  that 
night.'  Well,  it's  not  quite  so  dreadful  to  me, 
you  see,  because  I  know  he  was.  In  fact,  we 
were  there  together." 

"Together !"  repeated  the  lawyer. 

"We  were  together,"  she  said  quietly,  "because 
we  had  a  right  to  be  together." 

"Do  you  mean,"  stammered  Ashe,  surprised 
out  of  himself,  "that  you  were  engaged?" 

"No,  no,"  she  said.    "We  were  married." 

Then,  amid  a  startled  silence,  she  added,  as  a 
kind  of  afterthought: 
22  327 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"In  fact,  we  are  still." 

Strong  as  was  his  composure,  the  lawyer  sat 
back  in  his  chair  with  a  sort  of  solid  stupefaction 
at  which  Paynter  could  not  help  smiling. 

"You  will  ask  me,  of  course,"  went  on  Barbara 
in  the  same  measured  manner,  "why  we  should 
be  married  secretly,  so  that  even  my  poor  father 
did  not  know.  Well,  I  answer  you  quite  frankly 
to  begin  with ;  because,  if  he  had  known,  he  would 
certainly  have  cut  me  off  with  a  shilling.  He  did 
not  like  my  husband,  and  I  rather  fancy  you 
do  not  like  him  either.  And  when  I  tell  you  this, 
I  know  perfectly  well  what  you  will  say — the 
usual  adventurer  getting  hold  of  the  usual  heiress. 
It  is  quite  reasonable,  and,  as  it  happens,  it  is 
quite  wrong.  If  I  had  deceived  my  father  for 
the  sake  of  the  money,  or  even  for  the  sake  of  a 
man,  I  should  be  a  little  ashamed  to  talk  to  you 
about  it.  And  I  think  you  can  see  that  I  am 
not  ashamed." 

"Yes,"  said  the  American,  with  a  grave  inclina- 
tion, "yes,  I  can  see  that." 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully  for  a  moment, 
as  if  seeking  words  for  an  obscure  matter,  and 
then  said: 

"Dp  you  remember,  Mr.  Paynter,  that  day 
you  first  lunched  here  and  told  us  about  the 
African  trees?  Well,  it  was  my  birthday;  I 
mean  my  first  birthday.  I  was  born  then,  or 
woke  up  or  something.  I  had  walked  in  this 
328 


The  Mystery  of  the  Well 

garden  like  a  somnambulist  in  the  sun.  I  think 
there  are  many  such  somnambulists  in  our  set  and 
our  society;  stunned  with  health,  drugged  with 
good  manners,  fitting  their  surroundings  too  well 
to  be  alive.  Well,  I  came  alive  somehow;  and 
you  know  how  deep  in  us  are  the  things  we  first 
realize  when  we  were  babies  and  began  to  take 
notice.  I  began  to  take  notice.  One  of  the  first 
things  I  noticed  was  your  own  story,  Mr.  Payn- 
ter.  I  feel  as  if  I  heard  of  St.  Securis  as  chil- 
dren hear  of  Santa  Claus,  and  as  if  that  big 
tree  were  a  bogey  I  still  believed  in.  For  I  do 
still  believe  in  such  things,  or  rather  I  believe  in 
them  more  and  more;  I  feel  certain  my  poor 
father  drove  on  the  rocks  by  disbelieving,  and 
you  are  all  racing  to  ruin  after  him.  That  is 
why  I  do  honestly  want  the  estate,  and  that  is 
why  I  am  not  ashamed  of  wanting  it.  I  am 
perfectly  certain,  Mr.  Paynter,  that  nobody  can 
save  this  perishing  land  and  this  perishing  people 
but  those  who  understand.  I  mean  who  under- 
stand a  thousand  little  signs  and  guides  in  the 
very  soil  and  lie  of  the  land,  and  traces  that  are 
almost  trampled  out.  My  husband  understands, 
and  I  have  begun  to  understand ;  my  father  would 
never  have  understood.  There  are  powers,  there 
is  the  spirit  of  a  place,  there  are  presences  that 
are  not  to  be  put  by.  Oh,  don't  fancy  I  am  senti- 
mental and  hanker  after  the  good  old  days.  The 
old  days  were  not  all  good;  that  is  just  the  point, 
329 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

and  we  must  understand  enough  to  know  the 
good  from  the  evil.  We  must  understand  enough 
to  save  the  traces  of  a  saint  or  a  sacred  tradition, 
or,  where  a  wicked  god  has  been  worshiped,  to 
destroy  his  altar  and  to  cut  down  his  grove." 

"His  grove,"  said  Paynter  automatically,  and 
looked  toward  the  little  wood,  where  the  sun- 
bright  birds  were  flying. 

"Mrs.  Treherne,"  said  Ashe,  with  a  formid- 
able quietness,  "I  am  not  so  unsympathetic  with 
all  this  as  you  may  perhaps  suppose.  I  will  not 
even  say  it  is  all  moonshine,  for  it  is  something 
better.  It  is,  if  I  may  say  so,  honeymoonshine. 
I  will  never  deny  the  saying  that  it  makes  the 
world  go  round,  if  it  makes  people's  heads  go 
round  too.  But  there  are  other  sentiments, 
madam,  and  other  duties.  I  need  not  tell  you 
your  father  was  a  good  man,  and  that  what  has 
befallen  him  would  be  pitiable,  even  as  the  fate 
of  the  wicked.  This  is  a  horrible  thing,  and  it  is 
chiefly  among  horrors  that  we  must  keep  our 
common  sense.  There  are  reasons  for  every- 
thing, and  when  my  old  friend  lies  butchered  do 
not  come  to  me  with  even  the  most  beautiful 
fairy  tales  about  a  saint  and  his  enchanted  grove." 

"Well,  and  you !"  she  cried,  and  rose  radiantly 
and  swiftly.  "With  what  kind  of  fairy  tales  do 
you  come  to  me?  In  what  enchanted  groves  are 
you  walking?  You  come  and  tell  me  that  Mr. 
Paynter  found  a  well  where  the  water  danced 
330 


The  Mystery  of  the  Well 

and  then  disappeared;  but  of  course  miracles 
are  all  moonshine!  You  tell  me  you  yourself 
fished  bones  from  under  the  same  water,  and 
every  bone  was  as  dry  as  a  biscuit;  but  for 
Heaven's  sake  let  us  say  nothing  that  makes 
anybody's  head  go  round!  Really,  Mr.  Ashe, 
you  must  try  to  preserve  your  common  sense!" 

She  was  smiling,  but  with  blazing  eyes;  and 
Ashe  got  to  his  feet  with  an  involuntary  laugh 
of  surrender. 

"Well,  we  must  be  going,"  he  said.  "May  I 
say  that  a  tribute  is  really  due  to  your  new  trans- 
cendental training?  If  I  may  say  so,  I  always 
knew  you  had  brains;  and  you've  been  learning 
to  use  them." 

The  two  amateur  detectives  went  back  to  the 
wood  for  the  moment,  that  Ashe  might  consider 
the  removal  of  the  unhappy  Squire's  remains. 
As  he  pointed  out,  it  was  now  legally  possible 
to  have  an  inquest,  and,  even  at  that  early  stage 
of  investigations,  he  was  in  favor  of  having  it 
at  once. 

"I  shall  be  the  coroner,"  he  said,  "and  I  think 
it  will  be  a  case  of  'some  person  or  persons  un- 
known.' Don't  be  surprised;  it  is  often  done  to 
give  the  guilty  a  false  security.  This  is  not  the 
first  time  the  police  have  found  it  convenient  to 
have  the  inquest  first  and  the  inquiry  afterward." 

But  Paynter  had  paid  little  attention  to  the 
point;  for  his  great  gift  of  enthusiasm,  long 
33i 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

wasted  on  arts  and  affectations,  was  lifted  to 
inspiration  by  the  romance  of  real  life  into  which 
he  had  just  walked.  He  was  really  a  great  critic ; 
he  had  a  genius  for  admiration,  and  his  admira- 
tion varied  fittingly  with  everything  he  admired. 

"A  splendid  girl  and  a  splendid  story,"  he 
cried.  "I  feel  as  if  I  were  in  love  again  myself, 
not  so  much  with  her  as  with  Eve  or  Helen  of 
Troy,  or  some  such  tower  of  beauty  in  the  morn- 
ing of  the  world.  Don't  you  love  all  heroic 
things,  that  gravity  and  great  candor,  and  the 
way  she  took  one  step  from  a  sort  of  throne  to 
stand  in  a  wilderness  with  a  vagabond?  Oh, 
believe  me,  it  is  she  who  is  the  poet;  she  has  the 
higher  reason,  and  honor  and  valor  are  at  rest 
in  her  soul." 

"In  short,  she  is  uncommonly  pretty,"  replied 
Ashe,  with  some  cynicism.  "I  knew  a  murderess 
rather  well  who  was  very  much  like  her,  and  had 
just  that  colored  hair." 

"You  talk  as  if  a  murderer  could  be  caught  red- 
haired  instead  of  red-handed,"  retorted  Paynter. 
"Why,  at  this  very  minute,  you  could  be  caught 
red-haired  yourself.  Are  you  a  murderer,  by 
any  chance?" 

Ashe  looked  up  quickly,  and  then  smiled. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  a  connoisseur  in  murderers, 
as  you  are  in  poets,"  he  answered,  "and  I  assure 
you  they  are  of  all  colors  in  hair  as  well  as  tem- 
perament. I  suppose  it's  inhumane,  but  mine  is 
332 


The  Mystery  of  the  Well 

a  monstrously  interesting  trade,  even  in  a  little 
place  like  this.  As  for  that  girl,  of  course  I've 
known  her  all  her  life,  and — But — but  that  is  just 
the  question.  Have  I  known  her  all  her  life? 
Have  I  known  her  at  all?  Was  she  even  there 
to  be  known?  You  admire  her  for  telling  the 
truth;  and  so  she  did,  by  God,  when  she  said 
that  some  people  wake  up  late,  who  have  never 
lived  before.  Do  we  know  what  they  might  do 
— we,  who  have  only  seen  them  asleep?" 

"Great  heavens !"  cried  Paynter.  "You  don't 
dare  suggest  that  she " 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  the  lawyer,  with  compo- 
sure, "but  there  are  other  reasons.  ...  I  don't 
suggest  anything  fully,  till  we've  had  our  inter- 
view with  this  poet  of  yours.  I  think  I  know 
where  to  find  him." 

They  found  him,  in  fact,  before  they  expected 
him,  sitting  on  the  bench  outside  the  Vane  Arms, 
drinking  a  mug  of  cider  and  waiting  for  the 
return  of  his  American  friend;  so  it  was  not 
difficult  to  open  conversation  with  him.  Nor  did 
he  in  any  way  avoid  the  subject  of  the  tragedy; 
and  the  lawyer,  seating  himself  also  on  the  long 
bench  that  fronted  the  little  market  place,  was 
soon  putting  the  last  developments  as  lucidly  as 
he  had  put  them  to  Barbara. 

"Well,"  said  Treherne  at  last,  leaning  back 
and  frowning  at  the  signboard,  with  the  colored 
birds  and  dolphins,  just  about  his  head;  "sup- 
333 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

pose  somebody  did  kill  the  Squire.  He'd  killed 
a  good  many  people  with  his  hygiene  and  his 
enlightened  landlordism." 

Paynter  was  considerably  uneasy  at  this  alarm- 
ing opening;  but  the  poet  went  on  quite  coolly, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  feet  thrust 
out  into  the  street. 

"When  a  man  has  the  power  of  a  Sultan  in 
Turkey,  and  uses  it  with  the  ideas  of  a  spinster 
in  Tooting,  I  often  wonder  that  nobody  puts  a 
knife  in  him.  I  wish  there  were  more  sympathy 
for  murderers,  somehow.  I'm  very  sorry  the 
poor  old  fellow's  gone  myself;  but  you  gentle- 
men always  seem  to  forget  there  are  any  other 
people  in  the  world.  He's  all  right;  he  was  a 
good  fellow,  and  his  soul,  I  fancy,  has  gone  to 
the  happiest  paradise  of  all." 

The  anxious  American  could  read  nothing  of 
the  effect  of  this  in  the  dark  Napoleonic  face 
of  the  lawyer,  who  merely  said:  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

"The  fool's  paradise,"  said  Treherne,  and 
drained  his  pot  of  cider. 

The  lawyer  rose.  He  did  not  look  at  Tre- 
herne, or  speak  to  him;  but  looked  and  spoke 
straight  across  him  to  the  American,  who  found 
the  utterance  not  a  little  unexpected. 

"Mr.  Paynter,"  said  Ashe,  "you  thought  it 
rather  morbid  of  me  to  collect  murderers;  but 
it's  fortunate  for  your  own  view  of  the  case  that 
334 


The  Mystery  of  the  Well 

I  do.  It  may  surprise  you  to  know  that  Mr.  Tre- 
herne  has  now,  in  my  eyes,  entirely  cleared  him- 
self of  suspicion.  I  have  been  intimate  with 
several  assassins,  as  I  remarked;  but  there's  one 
thing  none  of  them  ever  did.  I  never  knew  a 
murderer  to  talk  about  the  murder,  and  then  at 
once  deny  it  and  defend  it.  No,  if  a  man  is  con- 
cealing his  crime,  why  should  he  go  out  of  his 
way  to  apologize  for  it?" 

"Well,"  said  Paynter,  with  his  ready  apprecia- 
tion, "I  always  said  you  were  a  remarkable  man; 
and  that's  certainly  a  remarkable  idea." 

"Do  I  understand,"  asked  the  poet,  kicking 
his  heels  on  the  cobbles,  uthat  both  you  gentle- 
men have  been  kindly  directing  me  toward  the 
gallows?" 

"No,"  said  Paynter  thoughtfully.  "I  never 
thought  you  guilty ;  and  even  supposing  I  had,  if 
you  understand  me,  I  should  never  have  thought 
it  quite  so  guilty  to  be  guilty.  It  would  not  have 
been  for  money  or  any  mean  thing,  but  for  some- 
thing a  little  wilder  and  worthier  of  a  man  of 
genius.  After  all,  I  suppose,  the  poet  has  pas- 
sions like  great  unearthly  appetites;  and  the 
world  has  always  judged  more  gently  of  his  sins. 
But  now  that  Mr.  Ashe  admits  your  innocence, 
I  can  honestly  say  I  have  always  affirmed  it." 

The  poet  rose  also.  "Well,  I  am  innocent, 
oddly  enough,"  he  said.  "I  think  I  can  make  a 
guess  about  your  vanishing  well,  but  of  the  death 
335 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

and  dry  bones  I  know  no  more  than  the  dead — 
if  so  much.  And,  by  the  way,  my  dear  Paynter" 
— and  he  turned  two  bright  eyes  on  the  art  critic 
— "I  will  excuse  you  from  excusing  me  for  all  the 
things  I  haven't  done;  and  you,  I  hope,  will 
excuse  me  if  I  differ  from  you  altogether  about 
the  morality  of  poets.  As  you  suggest,  it  is  a 
fashionable  view,  but  I  think  it  is  a  fallacy.  No 
man  has  less  right  to  be  lawless  than  a  man  of 
imagination.  For  he  has  spiritual  adventures, 
and  can  take  his  holidays  when  he  likes.  I  could 
picture  the  poor  Squire  carried  off  to  elfland 
whenever  I  wanted  him  carried  off,  and  that 
wood  needed  no  crime  to  make  it  wicked  for  me. 
That  red  sunset  the  other  night  was  all  that  a 
murder  would  have  been  to  many  men.  No,  Mr. 
Ashe;  show,  when  next  you  sit  in  judgment,  a 
little  mercy  to  some  wretched  man  who  drinks 
and  robs  because  he  must  drink  beer  to  taste  it, 
and  take  it  to  drink  it.  Have  compassion  on  the 
next  batch  of  poor  thieves,  who  have  to  hold 
things  in  order  to  have  them.  But  if  ever  you 
find  me  stealing  one  small  farthing,  when  I  can 
shut  my  eyes  and  see  the  city  of  El  Dorado,  then" 
— and  he  lifted  his  head  like  a  falcon — "show  me 
no  mercy,  for  I  shall  deserve  none." 

"Well,"  remarked  Ashe,   after  a  pause,   "I 

must  go  and  fix  things  up  for  the  inquest.     Mr. 

Treherne,  your  attitude  is  singularly  interesting; 

I  really  almost  wish  I  could  add  you  to  my  collec- 

336 


The  Mystery  of  the  Well 

tion  of  murderers.  They  are  a  varied  and  ex- 
traordinary set." 

"Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you,"  asked  Paynter, 
"that  perhaps  the  men  who  have  never  com- 
mitted murder  are  a  varied  and  very  extraor- 
dinary set  ?  Perhaps  every  plain  man's  life  holds 
the  real  mystery,  the  secret  of  sins  avoided." 

"Possibly,"  replied  Ashe.  "It  would  be  a  long 
business  to  stop  the  next  man  in  the  street  and 
ask  him  what  crimes  he  never  committed  and 
why  not.  And  I  happen  to  be  busy,  so  you'll 
excuse  me." 

"What,"  asked  the  American,  when  he  and 
the  poet  were  alone,  "is  this  guess  of  yours  about 
the  vanishing  water?" 

"Well,  I'm  not  sure  I'll  tell  you  yet,"  an- 
swered Treherne,  something  of  the  old  mischief 
coming  back  into  his  dark  eyes.  "But  I'll  tell 
you  something  else,  which  may  be  connected  with 
it;  something  I  couldn't  tell  until  my  wife  had 
told  you  about  our  meeting  in  the  wood."  His 
face  had  grown  grave  again,  and  he  resumed 
after  a  pause: 

"When  my  wife  started  to  follow  her  father 
I  advised  her  to  go  back  first  to  the  house,  to 
leave  it  by  another  door  and  to  meet  me  in  the 
wood  in  half  an  hour.  We  often  made  these 
assignations,  of  course,  and  generally  thought 
them  great  fun,  but  this  time  the  question  was 
serious,  and  I  didn't  want  the  wrong  thing  done 
337 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

in  a  hurry.  It  was  a  question  whether  anything 
could  be  done  to  undo  an  experiment  we  both 
vaguely  felt  to  be  dangerous,  and  she  especially 
thought,  after  reflection,  that  interference  would 
make  things  worse.  She  thought  the  old  sports- 
man, having  been  dared  to  do  something,  would 
certainly  not  be  dissuaded  by  the  very  man  who 
had  dared  him  or  by  a  woman  whom  he  regarded 
as  a  child.  She  left  me  at  last  in  a  sort  of 
despair,  but  I  lingered  with  a  last  hope  of  doing 
something,  and  drew  doubtfully  near  to  the  heart 
of  the  wood;  and  there,  instead  of  the  silence  I 
expected,  I  heard  a  voice.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
Squire  must  be  talking  to  himself,  and  I  had  the 
unpleasant  fancy  that  he  had  already  lost  his 
reason  in  that  wood  of  witchcraft.  But  I  soon 
found  that  if  he  was  talking  he  was  talking  with 
two  voices.  Other  fancies  attacked  me,  as  that 
the  other  was  the  voice  of  the  tree  or  the  voices 
of  the  three  trees  talking  together,  and  with  no 
man  near.  But  it  was  not  the  voice  of  the  tree. 
The  next  moment  I  knew  the  voice,  for  I  had 
heard  it  twenty  times  across  the  table.  It  was 
the  voice  of  that  doctor  of  yours ;  I  heard  it  as 
certainly  as  you  hear  my  voice  now." 

After  a  moment's  silence,  he  resumed:  "I  left 
the  wood,  I  hardly  knew  why,  and  with  wild  and 
bewildered  feelings;  and  as  I  came  out  into  the 
faint  moonshine  I  saw  that  old  lawyer  standing 
quietly,  but  staring  at  me  like  an  owl.  At  least, 
338 


The  Mystery  of  the  Well 

the  light  touched  his  red  hair  with  fire,  but  his 
square  old  face  was  in  shadow.  But  I  knew,  if 
I  could  have  read  it,  that  it  was  the  face  of  a 
hanging  judge." 

He  threw  himself  on  the  bench  again,  smiled 
a  little,  and  added:  "Only,  like  a  good  many 
hanging  judges,  I  fancy,  he  was  waiting  patiently 
to  hang  the  wrong  man." 

"And  the  right  man "  said  Paynter  me- 
chanically. Treherne  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
sprawling  on  the  ale  bench,  and  played  with  his 
empty  pot 


IV 

THE  CHASE  AFTER  THE  TRUTH 

COME  time  after  the  inquest,  which  had  ended 
^  in  the  inconclusive  verdict  which  Mr.  An- 
drew Ashe  had  himself  predicted  and  achieved, 
Paynter  was  again  sitting  on  the  bench  outside 
the  village  inn,  having  on  the  little  table  in  front 
of  it  a  tall  glass  of  light  ale,  which  he  enjoyed 
much  more  as  local  color  than  as  liquor.  He 
had  but  one  companion  on  the  bench,  and  that  a 
new  one,  for  the  little  market  place  was  empty 
at  that  hour,  and  he  had  lately,  for  the  rest, 
been  much  alone.  He  was  not  unhappy,  for  he 
resembled  his  great  countryman,  Walt  Whitman, 
in  carrying  a  kind  of  universe  with  him  like  an 
open  umbrella;  but  he  was  not  only  alone,  but 
lonely.  For  Ashe  had  gone  abruptly  up  to  Lon- 
don, and  since  his  return  had  been  occupied 
obscurely  with  legal  matters,  doubtless  bearing 
on  the  murder.  And  Treherne  had  long  since 
taken  up  his  position  openly,  at  the  great  house, 
as  the  husband  of  the  great  lady,  and  he  and 
she  were  occupied  with  sweeping  reforms  on  the 
estate.  The  lady  especially,  being  of  the  sort 
whose   very  dreams    "drive   at  practice/'   was 

340 


The  Chase  After  the  Truth 

landscape  gardening  as  with  the  gestures  of  a 
giantess.  It  was  natural,  therefore,  that  so 
sociable  a  spirit  as  Paynter  should  fall  into 
speech  with  the  one  other  stranger  who  happened 
to  be  staying  at  the  inn,  evidently  a  bird  of  pas- 
sage like  himself.  This  man,  who  was  smoking 
a  pipe  on  the  bench  beside  him,  with  his  knap- 
sack before  him  on  the  table,  was  an  artist  come 
to  sketch  on  that  romantic  coast;  a  tall  man  in  a 
velvet  jacket,  with  a  shock  of  tow-colored  hair,  a 
long  fair  beard,  but  eyes  of  dark  brown,  the 
effect  of  which  contrast  reminded  Paynter 
vaguely,  he  hardly  knew  why,  of  a  Russian.  The 
stranger  carried  his  knapsack  into  many  pic- 
turesque corners;  he  obtained  permission  to  set 
up  his  easel  in  that  high  garden  where  the  late 
Squire  had  held  his  al  fresco  banquets.  But 
Paynter  had  never  had  an  opportunity  of  judg- 
ing of  the  artist's  work,  nor  did  he  find  it  easy  to 
get  the  artist  even  to  talk  of  his  art.  Cyprian 
himself  was  always  ready  to  talk  of  any  art,  and 
he  talked  of  it  excellently,  but  with  little  response. 
He  gave  his  own  reasons  for  preferring  the 
Cubists  to  the  cult  of  Picasso,  but  his  new  friend 
seemed  to  have  but  a  faint  interest  in  either.  He 
insinuated  that  perhaps  the  Neo-Primitives  were 
after  all  only  thinning  their  line,  while  the  true 
Primitives  were  rather  tightening  it;  but  the 
stranger  seemed  to  receive  the  insinuation  with- 
out any  marked  reaction  of  feeling.  When 
34i 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

Paynter  had  even  gone  back  as  far  into  the  past 
asl  the  Post-Impressionists  to  find  a  common 
ground,  and  not  found  it,  other  memories  began 
to  creep  back  into  his  mind.  He  was  just  re- 
flecting, rather  darkly,  that  after  all  the  tale 
of  the  peacock  trees  needed  a  mysterious  stranger 
to  round  it  off,  and  this  man  had  much  the  air  of 
being  one,  when  the  mysterious  stranger  himself 
said  suddenly : 

"Well,  I  think  Fd  better  show  you  the  work 
I'm  doing  down  here." 

He  had  his  knapsack  before  him  on  the  table, 
and  he  smiled  rather  grimly  as  he  began  to  un- 
strap it.  Paynter  looked  on  with  polite  expres- 
sions of  interest,  but  was  considerably  surprised 
when  the  artist  unpacked  and  placed  on  the  table, 
not  any  recognizable  works  of  art,  even  of  the 
most  Cubist  description,  but  (first)  a  quire  of 
foolscap  closely  written  with  notes  in  black  and 
red  ink,  and  (second) ,  to  the  American's  extreme 
amazement,  the  old  woodman's  ax  with  the  linen 
wrapper,  which  he  had  himself  found  in  the  well 
long  ago. 

"Sorry  to  give  you  a  start,  sir,"  said  the  Rus- 
sian artist,  with  a  marked  London  accent.  "But 
I'd  better  explain  straight  off  that  I'm  a  police- 
man." 

"You  don't  look  it,"  said  Paynter. 

"I'm  not  supposed  to,"  replied  the  other. 
"Mr.  Ashe  brought  me  down  here  from  the 
342 


The  Chase  After  the  Truth 

Yard  to  investigate ;  but  he  told  me  to  report  to 
you  when  I'd  got  anything  to  go  on.  Would 
you  like  to  go  into  the  matter  now? 

"When  I  took  this  matter  up,"  explained  the 
detective,  "I  did  it  at  Mr.  Ashe's  request,  and 
largely,  of  course,  on  Mr.  Ashe's  lines.  Mr. 
Ashe  is  a  great  criminal  lawyer;  with  a  beautiful 
brain,  sir,  as  full  as  the  Newgate  Calendar.  I 
took,  as  a  working  notion,  his  view  that  only  you 
five  gentlemen  round  the  table  in  the  Squire's 
garden  were  acquainted  with  the  Squire's  move- 
ments. But  you  gentlemen,  if  I  may  say  so,  have 
a  way  of  forgetting  certain  other  things  and 
other  people  which  we  are  rather  taught  to  look 
for  first.  And  as  I  followed  Mr.  Ashe's  in- 
quiries through  the  stages  you  know  already, 
through  certain  suspicions  I  needn't  discuss  be- 
cause they've  been  dropped,  I  found  the  thing 
shaping  after  all  toward  something,  in  the  end, 
which  I  think  we  should  have  considered  at  the 
beginning.  Now,  to  begin  with,  it  is  not  true 
that  there  were  five  men  round  the  table.    There 


were  six." 


The  creepy  conditions  of  that  garden  vigil 
vaguely  returned  upon  Paynter;  and  he  thought 
of  a  ghost,  or  something  more  nameless  than  a 
ghost.  But  the  deliberate  speech  of  the  detec- 
tive soon  enlightened  him. 

uThere  were  six  men  and  five  gentlemen,  if 
you  like  to  put  it  so,"  he  proceeded.  "That  man 
23  343 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

Miles,  the  butler,  saw  the  Squire  vanish  as  plainly 
as  you  did;  and  I  soon  found  that  Miles  was  a 
man  worthy  of  a  good  deal  of  attention." 

A  light  of  understanding  dawned  on  Paynter's 
face.  "So  that  was  it,  was  it?"  he  muttered. 
"Does  all  our  mythological  mystery  end  with  a 
policeman  collaring  a  butler  ?  Well,  I  agree  with 
you  he  is  far  from  an  ordinary  butler,  even  to 
look  at;  and  the  fault  in  imagination  is  mine. 
Like  many  faults  in  imagination,  it  was  simply 
snobbishness." 

"We  don't  go  quite  so  fast  as  that,"  observed 
the  officer,  in  an  impassive  manner.  "I  only  said 
I  found  the  inquiry  pointing  to  Miles ;  and  that 
he  was  well  worthy  of  attention.  He  was  much 
more  in  the  old  Squire's  confidence  than  many 
people  supposed;  and  when  I  cross-examined  him 
he  told  me  a  good  deal  that  was  worth  knowing. 
I've  got  it  all  down  in  these  notes  here ;  but  at  the 
moment  I'll  only  trouble  you  with  one  detail  of 
it.  One  night  this  butler  was  just  outside  the 
Squire's  dining-room  door,  when  he  heard  the 
noise  of  a  violent  quarrel.  The  Squire  was  a 
violent  gentleman,  from  time  to  time;  but  the 
curious  thing  about  this  scene  was  that  the  other 
gentleman  was  the  more  violent  of  the  two. 
Miles  heard  him  say  repeatedly  that  the  Squire 
was  a  public  nuisance,  and  that  his  death  would 
be  a  good  riddance  for  everybody.  I  only  stop 
now  to  tell  you  that  the  other  gentleman  was 
344 


The  Chase  After  the  Truth 

Dr.  Burton  Brown,  the  medical  man  of  this 
village. 

"The  next  examination  I  made  was  that  of 
Martin,  the  woodcutter.  Upon  one  point  at  least 
his  evidence  is  quite  clear,  and  is,  as  you  will 
see,  largely  confirmed  by  other  witnesses.  He 
says  first  that  the  doctor  prevented  him  from 
recovering  his  ax,  and  this  is  corroborated  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Treherne.  But  he  says  further 
that  the  doctor  admitted  having  the  thing  him- 
self; and  this  again  finds  support  in  other  evi- 
dence by  the  gardener,  who  saw  the  doctor,  some 
time  afterward,  come  by  himself  and  pick  up 
the  chopper.  Martin  says  that  Doctor  Brown 
repeatedly  refused  to  give  it  up,  alleging  some 
fanciful  excuse  every  time.  And,  finally,  Mr. 
Paynter,  we  will  hear  the  evidence  of  the  ax 
itself." 

He  laid  the  woodman's  tool  on  the  table  in 
front  of  him,  and  began  to  rip  up  and  unwrap 
the  curious  linen  covering  round  the  handle. 

"You  will  admit  this  is  an  odd  bandage,"  he 
said.  "And  that's  just  the  odd  thing  about  it, 
that  it  really  is  a  bandage.  This  white  stuff  is 
the  sort  of  lint  they  use  in  hospitals,  cut  into 
strips  like  this.  But  most  doctors  keep  some; 
and  I  have  the  evidence  of  Jake  the  fisherman, 
with  whom  Doctor  Brown  lived  for  some  time, 
that  the  doctor  had  this  useful  habit.  And,  last," 
he  added,  flattening  out  a  corner  of  the  rag  on 
345 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

the  table,  "isn't  it  odd  that  it  should  be  marked 
T.B.B.?" 

The  American  gazed  at  the  rudely  inked 
initials,  but  hardly  saw  them.  What  he  saw,  as 
in  a  mirror  in  his  darkened  memory,  was  the 
black  figure  with  the  black  gloves  against  the 
blood-red  sunset,  as  he  had  seen  it  when  he  came 
out  of  the  wood,  and  which  had  always  haunted 
him,  he  knew  not  why. 

"Of  course,  I  see  what  you  mean,"  he  said, 
"and  it's  very  painful  for  me,  for  I  knew  and 
respected  the  man.  But  surely,  also,  it's  very 
far  from  explaining  everything.  If  he  is  a  mur- 
derer, is  he  a  magician?  Why  did  the  well  water 
all  evaporate  in  a  night,  and  leave  the  dead  man's 
bones  dry  as  dust?  That's  not  a  common  opera- 
tion in  the  hospitals,  is  it?" 

"As  to  the  water,  we  do  know  the  explana- 
tion," said  the  detective.  "I  didn't  tumble  to  it 
at  first  myself,  being  a  Cockney;  but  a  little  talk 
with  Jake  and  the  other  fisherman  about  the  old 
smuggling  days  put  me  straight  about  that.  But 
I  admit  the  dried  remains  still  stump  us  all.  All 
the  same " 

A  shadow  fell  across  the  table,  and  his  talk 
was  sharply  cut  short.  Ashe  was  standing  under 
the  painted  sign,  buttoned  up  grimly  in  black, 
and  with  the  face  of  the  hanging  judge,  of  which 
the  poet  had  spoken,  plain  this  time  in  the  broad 
sunlight.  Behind  him  stood  two  big  men  in 
346 


The  Chase  After  the  Truth 

plain  clothes,  very  still;  but  Paynter  knew  in- 
stantly who  they  were. 

uWe  must  move  at  once,"  said  the  lawyer. 
"Dr.  Burton  Brown  is  leaving  the  village." 

The  tall  detective  sprang  to  his  feet,  and 
Paynter  instinctively  imitated  him. 

uHe  has  gone  up  to  the  Trehernes  possibly 
to  say  good-by,"  went  on  Ashe  rapidly.  "I'm 
sorry,  but  we  must  arrest  him  in  the  garden  there, 
if  necessary.  I've  kept  the  lady  out  of  the  way, 
I  think.  But  you" — addressing  the  factitious 
landscape  painter — "must  go  up  at  once  and  rig 
up  that  easel  of  yours  near  the  table  and  be  ready. 
We  will  follow  quietly,  and  come  up  behind  the 
tree.  We  must  be  careful,  for  it's  clear  he's  got 
wind  of  us,  or  he  wouldn't  be  doing  a  bolt." 

"I  don't  like  this  job,"  remarked  Paynter,  as 
they  mounted  toward  the  park  and  garden,  the 
detective  darting  on  ahead. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  do?"  asked  Ashe;  and, 
indeed,  his  strong,  heavy  face  looked  so  lined  and 
old  that  the  red  hair  seemed  unnatural,  like  a 
red  wig.  "I've  known  him  longer  than  you, 
though  perhaps  I've  suspected  him  longer  as 
well." 

When  they  topped  the  slope  of  the  garden 
the  detective  had  already  erected  his  easel, 
though  a  strong  breeze  blowing  toward  the  sea 
rattled  and  flapped  his  apparatus  and  blew  about 
his  fair  (and  false)  beard  in  the  wind.  Little 
347 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

clouds  curled  like  feathers,  were  scudding  sea- 
ward across  the  many-colored  landscape,  which 
the  American  art  critic  had  once  surveyed  on  a 
happier  morning;  but  it  is  doubtful  if  the  land- 
scape painter  paid  much  attention  to  it.  Tre- 
herne  was  dimly  discernible  in  the  doorway  of 
what  was  now  his  house;  he  would  come  no 
nearer,  for  he  hated  such  a  public  duty  more 
bitterly  than  the  rest.  The  others  posted  them- 
selves a  little  way  behind  the  tree.  Between  the 
lines  of  these  masked  batteries  the  black  figure 
of  the  doctor  could  be  seen  coming  across  the 
green  lawn,  traveling  straight,  as  a  bullet,  as  he 
had  done  when  he  brought  the  bad  news  to  the 
woodcutter.  To-day  he  was  smiling,  under  the 
dark  mustache  that  was  cut  short  of  the  upper 
lip,  though  they  fancied  him  a  little  pale,  and 
he  seemed  to  pause  a  moment  and  peer  through 
his  spectacles  at  the  artist. 

The  artist  turned  from  his  easel  with  a  natural 
movement,  and  then  in  a  flash  had  captured  the 
doctor  by  the  coat  collar. 

"I  arrest  you "   he  began;  but  Doctor 

Brown  plucked  himself  free  with  startling  promp- 
titude, took  a  flying  leap  at  the  other,  tore  off  his 
sham  beard,  tossing  it  into  the  air  like  one  of  the 
wild  wisps  of  the  cloud;  then,  with  one  wild  kick, 
sent  the  easel  flying  topsy-turvy,  and  fled  like  a 
hare  for  the  shore. 

Even  at  that  dazzling  instant  Paynter  felt  that 
348 


The  Chase  After  the  Truth 

this  wild  reception  was  a  novelty  and  almost  an 
anticlimax;  but  he  had  no  time  for  analysis  when 
he  and  the  whole  pack  had  to  follow  in  the  hunt; 
even  Treherne  bringing  up  the  rear  with  a  re- 
newed curiosity  and  energy. 

The  fugitive  collided  with  one  of  the  police- 
men who  ran  to  head  him  off,  sending  him  sprawl- 
ing down  the  slope;  indeed,  the  fugitive  seemed 
inspired  with  the  strength  of  a  wild  ape.  He 
cleared  at  a  bound  the  rampart  of  flowers,  over 
which  Barbara  had  once  leaned  to  look  at  her 
future  lover,  and  tumbled  with  blinding  speed 
down  the  steep  path  up  which  that  troubadour  had 
climbed.  Racing  with  the  rushing  wind  they  all 
streamed  across  the  garden  after  him,  down  the 
path,  and  finally  on  to  the  seashore  by  the  fisher's 
cot,  and  the  pierced  crags  and  caverns  the  Ameri- 
can had  admired  when  he  first  landed.  The 
runaway  did  not,  however,  make  for  the  house 
he  had  long  inhabited,  but  rather  for  the  pier, 
as  if  with  a  mind  to  seize  the  boat  or  to  swim. 
Only  when  he  reached  the  other  end  of  the  small 
stone  jetty  did  he  turn,  and  show  them  the  pale 
face  with  the  spectacles ;  and  they  saw  that  it  was 
still  smiling. 

"I'm  rather  glad  of  this,"  said  Treherne,  with 
a  great  sigh.     'The  man  is  mad." 

Nevertheless,  the  naturalness  of  the  doctor's 
voice,  when  he  spoke,  startled  them  as  much  as  a 
shriek. 

349 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

"Gentleman,"  he  said,  "I  won't  protract  your 
painful  duties  by  asking  you  what  you  want;  but 
I  will  ask  at  once  for  a  small  favor,  which  will 
not  prejudice  those  duties  in  any  way.  I  came 
down  here  rather  in  a  hurry  perhaps;  but  the 
truth  is  I  thought  I  was  late  for  an  appointment." 
He  looked  dispassionately  at  his  watch.  "I  find 
there  is  still  some  fifteen  minutes.  Will  you  wait 
with  me  here  for  that  short  time ;  after  which  I 
am  quite  at  your  service." 

There  was  a  bewildered  silence,  and  then 
Paynter  said:  "For  my  part,  I  feel  as  if  it  would 
really  be  better  to  humor  him." 

"Ashe,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  new  note  of 
seriousness,"  for  old  friendship,  grant  me  this 
last  little  indulgence.  It  will  make  no  difference ; 
I  have  no  arms  or  means  of  escape;  you  can 
search  me  if  you  like.  I  know  you  think  you  are 
doing  right,  and  I  also  know  you  will  do  it  as 
fairly  as  you  can.  Well,  after  all,  you  get  friends 
to  help  you;  look  at  our  friend  with  the  beard, 
or  the  remains  of  the  beard.  Why  shouldn't  I 
have  a  friend  to  help  me?  A  man  will  be  here 
in  a  few  minutes  in  whom  I  put  some  confidence ; 
a  great  authority  on  these  things.  Why  not,  if 
only  out  of  curiosity,  wait  and  hear  his  view  of 
the  case?" 

"This  seems  all  moonshine,"  said  Ashe,  "but 
on  the  chance  of  any  light  on  things — well,  from 
the  moon — I  don't  mind  waiting  a  quarter  of  an 
35o 


The  Chase  After  the  Truth 

hour.  Who  is  this  friend,  I  wonder;  some  ama- 
teur detective,  I  suppose." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  the  doctor,  with  some 
dignity.  "I  think  you  will  trust  him  when  you 
have  talked  to  him  a  little.  And  now,"  he  added 
with  an  air  of  amiably  relaxing  into  lighter  mat- 
ters, "let  us  talk  about  the  murder. 

"This  case,"  he  said  in  a  detached  manner, 
"will  be  found,  I  suspect,  to  be  rather  unique. 
There  is  a  very  clear  and  conclusive  combination 
of  evidence  against  Thomas  Burton  Brown, 
otherwise  myself.  But  there  is  one  peculiarity 
about  that  evidence,  which  you  may  perhaps  have 
noticed.  It  all  comes  ultimately  from  one  source, 
and  that  a  rather  unusual  one.  Thus,  the  wood- 
cutter says  I  had  his  ax,  but  what  makes  him 
think  so?  He  says  /  told  him  I  had  his  ax;  that 
I  told  him  so  again  and  again.  Once  more,  Mr. 
Paynter  here  pulled  up  the  ax  out  of  the  well; 
but  how?  I  think  Mr.  Paynter  will  testify  that 
/  brought  him  the  tackle  for  fishing  it  up,  tackle 
he  might  never  have  got  in  any  other  way.  Curi- 
ous, is  it  not?  Again,  the  ax  is  found  to  be 
wrapped  in  lint  that  was  in  my  possession,  accord- 
ing to  the  fisherman.  But  who  showed  the  lint 
to  the  fisherman?  I  did.  Who  marked  it  with 
large  letters  as  mine?  I  did.  Who  wrapped  it 
round  the  handle  at  all?  I  did.  Rather  a  singu- 
lar thing  to  do ;  has  anyone  ever  explained  it?" 

His  words,  which  had  been  heard  at  first  with 
35i 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

painful  coldness  were  beginning  to  hold  more  and 
more  of  their  attention. 

"Then  there  is  the  well  itself,"  proceeded  the 
doctor,  with  the  same  air  of  insane  calm.  "I 
suppose  some  of  you  by  this  time  know  at  least 
the  secret  of  that.  The  secret  of  the  well  is 
simply  that  it  is  not  a  well.  It  is  purposely 
shaped  at  the  top  so  as  to  look  like  one,  but  it 
is  really  a  sort  of  chimney  opening  from  the  roof 
of  one  of  those  caves  over  there;  a  cave  that 
runs  inland  just  under  the  wood,  and  indeed  is 
connected  by  tunnels  and  secret  passages  with 
other  openings  miles  and  miles  away.  It  is  a  sort 
of  labyrinth  used  by  smugglers  and  such  people 
for  ages  past.  This  doubtless  explains  many  of 
those  disappearances  we  have  heard  of.  But  to 
return  to  the  well  that  is  not  a  well,  in  case  some 
of  you  still  don't  know  about  it.  When  the  sea 
rises  very  high  at  certain  seasons  it  fills  the  low 
cave,  and  even  rises  a  little  way  in  the  funnel 
above,  making  it  look  more  like  a  well  than  ever. 
The  noise  Mr.  Paynter  heard  was  the  natural 
eddy  of  a  breaker  from  outside,  and  the  whole 
experience  depended  on  something  so  elementary 
as  the  tide." 

The  American  was  startled  into  ordinary 
speech. 

"The  tide!"  he  said.  "And  I  never  even 
thought  of  it!  I  guess  that  comes  of  living  by 
the  Mediterranean." 

352 


The  Chase  After  the  Truth 

"The  next  step  will  be  obvious  enough,"  con- 
tinued the  speaker,  "to  a  logical  mind  like  that 
of  Mr.  Ashe,  for  instance.  If  it  be  asked  why, 
even  so,  the  tide  did  not  wash  away  the  Squire's 
remains  that  had  lain  there  since  his  disappear- 
ance, there  is  only  one  possible  answer.  The 
remains  had  not  lain  there  since  his  disappear- 
ance. The  remains  had  been  deliberately  put 
there  in  the  cavern  under  the  wood,  and  put  there 
after  Mr.  Paynter  had  made  his  first  investiga- 
tion. They  were  put  there,  in  short,  after  the 
sea  had  retreated  and  the  cave  was  again  dry. 
That  is  why  they  were  dry;  of  course,  much  drier 
than  the  cave.    Who  put  them  there,  I  wonder?" 

He  was  gazing  gravely  through  his  spectacles 
over  their  heads  into  vacancy,  and  suddenly  he 
smiled. 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  jumping  up  from  the  rock 
with  alacrity,  "here  is  the  amateur  detective  at 
last!" 

Ashe  turned  his  head  over  his  shoulder,  and 
for  a  few  seconds  did  not  move  it  again,  but 
stood  as  if  with  a  stiff  neck.  In  the  cliff  just 
behind  him  was  one  of  the  clefts  or  cracks  into 
which  it  was  everywhere  cloven.  Advancing 
from  this  into  the  sunshine,  as  if  from  a  narrow 
door,  was  Squire  Vane,  with  a  broad  smile  on 
his  face. 

The  wind  was  tearing  from  the  top  of  the 
high  cliff  out  to  sea,  passing  over  their  heads,  and 
353 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

they  had  the  sensation  that  everything  was  pass- 
ing over  their  heads  and  out  of  their  control. 
Paynter  felt  as  if  his  head  had  been  blown  off 
like  a  hat.  But  none  of  this  gale  of  unreason 
seemed  to  stir  a  hair  on  the  white  head  of  the 
Squire,  whose  bearing,  though  self-important  and 
bordering  on  a  swagger,  seemed  if  anything  more 
comfortable  than  in  the  old  days.  His  red  face 
was,  however,  burnt  like  a  sailor's,  and  his  light 
clothes  had  a  foreign  look. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  he  said  genially,  "so  this 
is  the  end  of  the  legend  of  the  peacock  trees. 
Sorry  to  spoil  that  delightful  traveler's  tale,  Mr. 
Paynter,  but  the  joke  couldn't  be  kept  up  forever. 
Sorry  to  put  a  stop  to  your  best  poem,  Mr.  Tre- 
herne,  but  I  thought  all  this  poetry  had  been 
going  a  little  too  far.  So  Doctor  Brown  and  I 
fixed  up  a  little  surprise  for  you.  And  I  must 
say,  without  vanity,  that  you  look  a  little 
surprised." 

"What  on  earth,"  asked  Ashe  at  last,  "is  the 
meaning  of  all  this?" 

The  Squire  laughed  pleasantly,  and  even  a 
little  apologetically. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  fond  of  practical  jokes,"  he 
said,  "and  this  I  suppose  is  my  last  grand  prac- 
tical joke.  But  I  want  you  to  understand  that 
the  joke  is  really  practical.  I  flatter  myself  it 
will  be  of  very  practical  use  to  the  cause  of 
progress  and  common  sense,  and  the  killing  of 
354 


The  Chase  After  the  Truth 

such  superstitions  everywhere.  The  best  part 
of  it,  I  admit,  was  the  doctor's  idea  and  not 
mine.  All  I  meant  to  do  was  to  pass  a  night  in 
the  trees,  and  then  turn  up  as  fresh  as  paint  to 
tell  you  what  fools  you  were.  But  Doctor 
Brown  here  followed  me  into  the  wood,  and  we 
had  a  little  talk  which  rather  changed  my  plans. 
He  told  me  that  a  disappearance  for  a  few  hours 
like  that  would  never  knock  the  nonsense  on 
the  head;  most  people  would  never  even  hear 
of  it,  and  those  who  did  would  say  that  one  night 
proved  nothing.  He  showed  me  a  much  better 
way,  which  had  been  tried  in  several  cases  where 
bogus  miracles  had  been  shown  up.  The  thing 
to  do  was  to  get  the  thing  really  believed  every- 
where as  a  miracle,  and  then  shown  up  every- 
where as  a  sham  miracle.  I  can't  put  all  the 
arguments  as  well  as  he  did,  but  that  was  the 
notion,  I  think." 

The  doctor  nodded,  gazing  silently  at  the 
sand;  and  the  Squire  resumed  with  undiminished 
relish. 

"We  agreed  that  I  should  drop  through  the 
hole  into  the  cave,  and  make  my  way  through  the 
tunnels,  where  I  often  used  to  play  as  a  boy, 
to  the  railway  station  a  few  miles  from  here,  and 
there  take  a  train  for  London.  It  was  necessary 
for  the  joke,  of  course,  that  I  should  disappear 
without  being  traced;  so  I  made  my  way  to  a 
port,  and  put  in  a  very  pleasant  month  or  two 
355 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

round  my  old  haunts  in  Cyprus  and  the  Mediter- 
ranean. There's  no  more  to  say  of  that  part  of 
the  business,  except  that  I  arranged  to  be  back 
by  a  particular  time;  and  here  I  am.  But  I've 
heard  enough  of  what's  gone  on  round  here  to 
be  satisfied  that  I've  done  the  trick.  Every- 
body in  Cornwall  and  most  people  in  South  Eng- 
land have  heard  of  the  Vanishing  Squire;  and 
thousands  of  noodles  have  been  nodding  their 
heads  over  crystals  and  tarot  cards  at  this  mar- 
velous proof  of  an  unseen  world.  I  reckon  the 
Reappearing  Squire  will  scatter  their  cards  and 
smash  their  crystals,  so  that  such  rubbish  won't 
appear  again  in  the  twentieth  century.  I'll  make 
the  peacock  trees  the  laughing  stock  of  all  Europe 
and  America." 

"Well,"  said  the  lawyer,  who  was  the  first  to 
rearrange  his  wits,  "I'm  sure  we're  all  only  too 
delighted  to  see  you  again,  Squire;  and  I  quite 
understand  your  explanation  and  your  own  very 
natural  motives  in  the  matter.  But  I'm  afraid 
I  haven't  got  the  hang  of  everything  yet. 
Granted  that  you  wanted  to  vanish,  was  it  neces- 
sary to  put  bogus  bones  in  the  cave,  so  as  nearly 
to  put  a  halter  round  the  neck  of  Doctor  Brown? 
And  who  put  it  there?  The  statement  would 
appear  perfectly  maniacal;  but  so  far  as  I  can 
make  head  or  tail  out  of  anything,  Doctor  Brown 
seems  to  have  put  it  there  himself." 

The  doctor  lifted  his  head  for  the  first  time. 
356 


The  Chase  After  the  Truth 

"Yes;  I  put  the  bones  there,"  he  said.  "I 
believe  I  am  the  first  son  of  Adam  who  ever 
manufactured  all  the  evidence  of  a  murder  charge 
against  himself." 

It  was  the  Squire's  turn  to  look  astonished. 
The  old  gentleman  looked  rather  wildly  from 
one  to  the  other. 

"Bones!  Murder  charge!"  he  ejaculated. 
"What  the  devil  is  all  this  ?    Whose  bones  ?" 

"Your  bones,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,"  deli- 
cately conceded  the  doctor.  "I  had  to  make  sure 
you  had  really  died,  and  not  disappeared  by 
magic." 

The  Squire  in  his  turn  seemed  more  hopelessly 
puzzled  than  the  whole  crowd  of  his  friends  had 
been  over  his  own  escapade.  "Why  not?"  he 
demanded.  "I  thought  it  was  the  whole  point 
to  make  it  look  like  magic.  Why  did  you  want 
me  to  die  so  much?" 

Doctor  Brown  had  lifted  his  head;  and  he  now 
very  slowly  lifted  his  hand.  He  pointed  with 
outstretched  arm  at  the  headland  overhanging 
the  foreshore,  just  above  the  entrance  to  the 
cave.  It  was  the  exact  part  of  the  beach  where 
Paynter  had  first  landed,  on  that  spring  morning 
when  he  had  looked  up  in  his  first  fresh  wonder 
at  the  peacock  trees.     But  the  trees  were  gone. 

The  fact  itself  was  no  surprise  to  them;  the 
clearance  had  naturally  been  one  of  the  first  of 
the  sweeping  changes  of  the  Treherne  regime. 
357 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

But  though  they  knew  it  well,  they  had  wholly 
forgotten  it;  and  itsf  significance  returned  on 
them  suddenly  like  a  sign  in  heaven. 

"That  is  the  reason,"  said  the  doctor.  "I 
have  worked  for  that  for  fourteen  years." 

They  no  longer  looked  at  the  bare  promontory 
on  which  the  feathery  trees  had  once  been  so 
familiar  a  sight;  for  they  had  something  else  to 
look  at.  Anyone  seeing  the  Squire  now  would 
have  shifted  his  opinion  about  where  to  find  the 
lunatic  in  that  crowd.  It  was  plain  in  a  flash  that 
the  change  had  fallen  on  him  like  a  thunderbolt; 
that  he,  at  least,  had  never  had  the  wildest  notion 
that  the  tale  of  the  Vanishing  Squire  had  been 
but  a  prelude  to  that  of  the  vanishing  trees.  The 
next  half  hour  was  full  of  his  ravings  and  ex- 
postulations, which  gradually  died  away  into  de- 
mands for  explanation  and  incoherent  questions 
repeated  again  and  again.  He  had  practically 
to  be  overruled  at  last,  in  spite  of  the  respect  in 
which  he  was  held,  before  anything  like  a  space 
and  silence  were  made  in  which  the  doctor  could 
tell  his  own  story.  It  was  perhaps  a  singular 
story,  of  which  he  alone  had  ever  had  the  knowl- 
edge ;  and  though  its  narration  was  not  uninter- 
rupted, it  may  be  set  forth  consecutively  in  his 
own  words. 

"First,  I  wish  it  clearly  understood  that  I  be- 
lieve in  nothing.  I  do  not  even  give  the  nothing 
I  believe  a  name;  or  I  should  be  an  atheist.  I 
358 


The  Chase  After  the  Truth 

have  never  had  inside  my  head  so  much  as  a  hint 
of  heaven  and  hell.  I  think  it  most  likely  we 
are  worms  in  the  mud;  but  I  happen  to  be  sorry 
for  the  other  worms  under  the  wheel.  And  I 
happen  myself  to  be  a  sort  of  worm  that  turns 
when  he  can.  If  I  care  nothing  for  piety,  I  care 
less  for  poetry.  I'm  not  like  Ashe  here,  who  is 
crammed  with  criminology,  but  has  all  sorts  of 
other  culture  as  well.  I  know  nothing  about  cul- 
ture, except  bacteria  culture.  I  sometimes  fancy 
Mr.  Ashe  is  as  much  an  art  critic  as  Mr.  Paynter ; 
only  he  looks  for  his  heroes,  or  villains,  in  real 
life.  But  I  am  a  very  practical  man;  and  my 
stepping  stones  have  been  simply  scientific  facts. 
In  this  village  I  found  a  fact — a  fever.  I  could 
not  classify  it;  it  seemed  peculiar  to  this  corner 
of  the  coast;  it  had  singular  reactions  of  delirium 
and  mental  breakdown.  I  studied  it  exactly  as 
I  should  a  queer  case  in  the  hospital,  and  corre- 
sponded and  compared  notes  with  other  men  of 
science.  But  nobody  had  even  a  working  hy- 
pothesis about  it,  except  of  course  the  ignorant 
peasantry,  who  said  the  peacock  trees  were  in 
some  wild  way  poisonous. 

"Well,  the  peacock  trees  were  poisonous.  The 
peacock  trees  did  produce  the  fever.  I  verified 
the  fact  in  the  plain  plodding  way  required,  com- 
paring all  the  degrees  and  details  of  a  vast  num- 
ber of  cases;  and  there  were  a  shocking  number 
to  compare.  At  the  end  of  it  T  had  discovered 
24  359 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

the  thing  as  Harvey  discovered  the  circulation 
of  the  blood.  Everybody  was  the  worse  for  be- 
ing near  the  things;  those  who  came  off  best 
were  exactly  the  exceptions  that  proved  the  rule, 
abnormally  healthy  and  energetic  people  like  the 
Squire  and  his  daughter.  In  other  words,  the 
peasants  were  right.  But  if  I  put  it  that  way, 
somebody  will  cry:  'But  do  you  believe  it  was 
supernatural  then?'  In  fact,  that's  what  you'll 
all  say;  and  that's  exactly  what  I  complain  of. 
I  fancy  hundreds  of  men  have  been  left  dead  and 
diseases  left  undiscovered,  by  this  suspicion  of 
superstition,  this  stupid  fear  of  fear.  Unless 
you  see  daylight  through  the  forest  of  facts  from 
the  first,  you  won't  venture  into  the  wood  at  all. 
Unless  we  can  promise  you  beforehand  that  there 
shall  be  what  you  call  a  natural  explanation,  to 
save  your  precious  dignity  from  miracles,  you 
won't  even  hear  the  beginning  of  the  plain  tale. 
Suppose  there  isn't  a  natural  explanation  1  Sup- 
pose there  is,  and  we  never  find  it!  Suppose  I 
haven't  a  notion  whether  there  is  or  not!  What 
the  devil  has  that  to  do  with  you,  or  with  me  in 
dealing  with  the  facts  I  do  know?  My  own  in- 
stinct is  to  think  there  is;  that  if  my  researches 
could  be  followed  far  enough  it  would  be  found 
that  some  horrible  parody  of  hay  fever,  some 
effect  analogous  to  that  of  pollen,  would  explain 
all  the  facts.  I  have  never  found  the  explana- 
tion. What  I  have  found  are  the  facts.  And 
360 


The  Chase  After  the  Truth 

the  fact  is  that  those  trees  on  the  top  there  dealt 
death  right  and  left,  as  certainly  as  if  they  had 
been  giants,  standing  on  a  hill  and  knocking  men 
down  in  crowds  with  a  club.  It  will  be  said  that 
now  I  had  only  to  produce  my  proofs  and  have 
the  nuisance  removed.  Perhaps  I  might  have 
convinced  the  scientific  world  finally,  when  more 
and  more  processions  of  dead  men  had  passed 
through  the  village  to  the  cemetery.  But  I  had 
not  got  to  convince  the  scientific  world,  but  the 
Lord  of  the  Manor.  The  Squire  will  pardon  my 
saying  that  it  was  a  very  different  thing.  I  tried 
it  once;  I  lost  my  temper,  and  said  things  I  do 
not  defend;  and  I  left  the  Squire's  prejudices 
rooted  anew,  like  the  trees.  I  was  confronted 
with  one  colossal  coincidence  that  was  an  obstacle 
to  all  my  aims.  One  thing  made  all  my  science 
sound  like  nonsense.  It  was  the  popular  legend. 
"Squire,  if  there  were  a  legend  of  hay  fever, 
you  would  not  believe  in  hay  fever.  If  there 
were  a  popular  story  about  pollen,  you  would  say 
that  pollen  was  only  a  popular  story.  I  had 
something  against  me  heavier  and  more  hopeless 
than  the  hostility  of  the  learned;  I  had  the  sup- 
port of  the  ignorant.  My  truth  was  hopelessly 
tangled  up  with  a  tale  that  the  educated  were 
resolved  to  regard  as  entirely  a  lie.  I  never  tried 
to  explain  again;  on  the  contrary,  I  apologized, 
affected  a  conversion  to  the  common-sense  view, 
and  watched  events.  And  all  the  time  the  lines 
36i 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

of  a  larger,  if  more  crooked  plan,  began  to  get 
clearer  in  my  mind.  I  knew  that  Miss  Vane, 
whether  or  no  she  were  married  to  Mr.  Treherne, 
as  I  afterward  found  sh?  was,  was  so  much  under 
his  influence  that  the  first  day  of  her  inheritance 
would  be  the  last  day  of  the  poisonous  trees. 
But  she  could  not  inherit,  or  even  interfere,  till 
the  Squire  died.  It  became  simply  self-evident, 
to  a  rational  mind,  that  the  Squire  must  die.  But 
wishing  to  be  humane  as  well  as  rational,  I  de- 
sired his  death  to  be  temporary. 

"Doubtless  my  scheme  was  completed  by  a 
chapter  of  accidents,  but  I  was  watching  for  such 
accidents.  Thus  I  had  a  foreshadowing  of  how 
the  ax  would  figure  in  the  tale  when  it  was  first 
flung  at  the  trees;  it  would  have  surprised  the 
woodman  to  know  how  near  our  minds  were, 
and  how  I  was  but  laying  a  more  elaborate  siege 
to  the  towers  of  pestilence.  But  when  the  Squire 
spontaneously  rushed  on  what  half  the  country- 
side would  call  certain  death,  I  jumped  at  my 
chance.  I  followed  him,  and  told  him  all  that  he 
has  told  you.  I  don't  suppose  he'll  ever  forgive 
me  now,  but  that  shan't  prevent  me  saying  that 
I  admire  him  hugely  for  being  what  people  would 
call  a  lunatic  and  what  is  really  a  sportsman.  It 
takes  rather  a  grand  old  man  to  make  a  joke  in 
the  grand  style.  He  came  down  so  quick  from 
the  tree  he  had  climbed  that  he  had  no  time  to 
pull  his  hat  off  the  bough  it  had  caught  in. 
362 


The  Chase  After  the  Truth 

"At  first  I  found  I  had  made  a  miscalculation. 
I  thought  his  disappearance  would  be  taken  as 
his  death,  at  least  after  a  little  time;  but  Ashe 
told  me  there  could  be  no  formalities  without  a 
corpse.  I  fear  I  was  a  little  annoyed,  but  I  soon 
set  myself  to  the  duty  of  manufacturing  a  corpse. 
It's  not  hard  for  a  doctor  to  get  a  skeleton; 
indeed,  I  had  one,  but  Mr.  Paynter's  energy  was 
a  day  too  early  for  me,  and  I  only  got  the  bones 
into  the  well  when  he  had  already  found  it.  His 
story  gave  me  another  chance,  however;  I  noted 
where  the  hole  was  in  the  hat,  and  made  a  pre- 
cisely corresponding  hole  in  the  skull.  The  reason 
for  creating  the  other  clews  may  not  be  so  ob- 
vious. It  may  not  yet  be  altogether  apparent  to 
you  that  I  am  not  a  fiend  in  human  form.  I 
could  not  substantiate  a  murder  without  at  least 
suggesting  a  murderer,  and  I  was  resolved  that 
if  the  crime  happened  to  be  traced  to  anybody, 
it  should  be  to  me.  So  I'm  not  surprised  you 
were  puzzled  about  the  purpose  of  the  rag  round 
the  ax,  because  it  had  no  purpose,  except  to  in- 
criminate the  man  who  put  it  there.  The  chase 
had  to  end  with  me,  and  when  it  was  closing  in 
at  last  the  joke  of  it  was  too  much  for  me,  and 
I  fear  I  took  liberties  with  the  gentleman's  easel 
and  beard.  I  was  the  only  person  who  could 
risk  it,  being  the  only  person  who  could  at  the 
last  moment  produce  the  Squire  and  prove  there 
had  been  no  crime  at  all.  That,  gentlemen,  is 
363 


The  Man  Who  Knew  Too  Much 

the  true  story  of  the  peacock  trees;  and  that  bare 
crag  up  there,  where  the  wind  is  whistling  as  it 
would  over  a  wilderness,  is  a  waste  place  I  have 
labored  to  make,  as  many  men  have  labored  to 
make  a  cathedral. 

"I  don't  think  there  is  any  more  to  say,  and 
yet  something  moves  in  my  blood  and  I  will  try 
to  say  it.  Could  you  not  have  trusted  a  little 
these  peasants  whom  you  already  trust  so  much? 
These  men  are  men,  and  they  meant  something; 
even  their  fathers  were  not  wholly  fools.  If 
your  gardener  told  you  of  the  trees  you  called 
him  a  madman,  but  he  did  not  plan  and  plant  your 
garden  like  a  madman.  You  would  not  trust 
your  woodman  about  these  trees,  yet  you  trusted 
him  with  all  the  others.  Have  you  ever  thought 
what  all  the  work  of  the  world  would  be  like  if 
the  poor  were  so  senseless  as  you  think  them? 
But  no,  you  stuck  to  your  rational  principle.  And 
your  rational  principle  was  that  a  thing  must  be 
false  because  thousands  of  men  had  found  it  true ; 
that  because  many  human  eyes  had  seen  some- 
thing it  could  not  be  there. " 

He  looked  across  at  Ashe  with  a  sort  of  chal- 
lenge, but  though  the  sea  wind  ruffled  the  old 
lawyer's  red  mane,  his  Napoleonic  mask  was  un- 
ruffled; it  even  had  a  sort  of  beauty  from  its 
new  benignity; 

"I  am  too  happy  just  now  in  thinking  how 
wrong  I  have  been,"  he  answered,  "to  quarrel 
364 


The  Chase  After  the  Truth 

with  you,  doctor,  about  our  theories.  And  yet, 
in  justice  to  the  Squire  as  well  as  myself,  I  should 
demur  to  your  sweeping  inference.  I  respect 
these  peasants,  I  respect  your  regard  for  them; 
but  their  stories  are  a  different  matter.  I  think 
I  would  do  anything  for  them  but  believe  them. 
Truth  and  fancy,  after  all,  are  mixed  in  them, 
when  in  the  more  instructed  they  are  separate; 
and  I  doubt  if  you  have  considered  what  would 
be  involved  in  taking  their  word  for  anything. 
Half  the  ghosts  of  those  who  died  of  fever  may 
be  walking  by  now;  and  kind  as  these  people  are, 
I  believe  they  might  still  burn  a  witch.  No, 
doctor,  I  admit  these  people  have  been  badly 
used,  I  admit  they  are  in  many  ways  our  betters, 
but  I  still  could  not  accept  anything  in  their 
evidence.,, 

The  doctor  bowed  gravely  and  respectfully 
enough,  and  then,  for  the  last  time  that  day,  they 
saw  his  rather  sinister  smile. 

"Quite  so,"  he  said.  "But  you  would  have 
hanged  me  on  their  evidence." 

And,  turning  his  back  on  them,  as  if  auto- 
matically, he  set  his  face  toward  the  village, 
where  for  so  many  years  he  had  gone  his  round. 


THE   END 


365 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

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NOV  2  9  1966 


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